Respite – A Tale of Meddlers and Madwomen
by Rushwriter
Summary: A mysterious madness plagues the immortals, while Lucian slumbers eternally below the underworld...that is, until a certain thief makes her sorry way down there... I mean really, who knew he'd wake up? Undergoing mass revision See Profile for details
1. Disclaimer

_27 May 2007 update:_

Dear readers,

**This story is currently** **on hiatus**. I'm planning to reread, rewrite and revamp the entire story. Although I made this clear on my profile page, I'm afraid I neglected to mention it here and for that, I apologise. Until further notice, please consider the story a first draft with a muddle of pages. Hopefully, I'll be reposting in a few months with the polished beginnings of a somewhat new Lucian's Respite. Most new characters will remain, including Victoria Reed and the Two of Knots. Until then, feel free to read what's here. Perhaps get a feel for a character you might like, but remember that the story itself will most likely be altered in a few months.

Sincerely,  
Rushwriter

_07 August 2006 update: Please do **read and review** when new things go up and/or old things change_...

_Chapter Thirteen_ **-** The Twisted Neck of a Raven _- NEW_

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**Disclaimer:** As you all know, I don't own Underworld. Instead, the characters were created by Kevin Grevioux (a.k.a. Raze) , Len Wiseman, and Danny McBride. Please don't sue...what am I saying? You're not even reading this...you have more important things to do (like make Underworld 3...please...more Lucian this time, yes?)

Anyway, this particular story features the following characters from Underworld and Underworld Evolution:  
Lucian, Selene, Michael, Raze, Viktor, Sonja, Tanis, Alexander Corvinus, Amelia, Markus

(I'll be adding new characters as we go along…It's also my first fan-fiction, so please do **read and review**, so I know how I'm doing...and whether anyone's actually reading.)

BTW...there are spoilers for both movies in this story...so I'm assuming you've seen both when you read this. If you haven't...I can't help you (go noooow)

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**Full Summary:**

_Set four years after Underworld Evolution._

A mysterious creature breaks free of Viktor's fortress, bringing plague to the Underworld streets. The key to her defeat lies in the bargained blood of a sleeping lycan warlord caught by the exiled Two of Knots who rule the ancient Tombs of yore. When Reed, a dark-haired historian harbouring a terrible secret, enters this world beneath the Underworld, she is forced to wake the lycan warlord…

_…and unwittingly falls for a soul whose silver-addled memories stop before ever a six century war began._

As the Two of Knots scramble to find the missing links, tension mounts between the lycans and vampires who still remain at war. The vampires, now led by the vengeful and aged Bloodseeker Miklos, must be convinced to ceasefire as they prepare for the final cull of the lycan species. At the same time, the lycans, now led by Raze, have retreated to the underground estates of their past, gathering their depleted forces to make their final stand against the tide that would come. Unwilling to let them be slaughtered, Lucian must choose between aiding the exiles he hates or giving up Reed, regaining his memories and returning to his place as leader of the lycan hoard.

_The past must come to light with the coming of the child_...

…siblings must be woken, secrets must be dug up, and truces must be made before the immortals are wiped into oblivion by a deadly force of insanity.


	2. Prologue I: The Bargain

**Prologue I : The Bargain**

_1282 A.D_

I hear silence unbroken.

_Far too dark in the deep of the night below the streets of Buda._

Stone slabs cause me to stumble as I pick my way through the underground, my hands reaching for the sides of my solid prison. The mold seeps into my nostrils, forcing me to gasp stale air down my throat. _The taste is rank against my tongue_.

_So cold_…but I cannot stop. Something scurries against my leg and I jump back against the wall, biting my lips…fearful that I will cry out in the hush of the tombs. _Only a rat_.

I claw my way to the center of the road.  
Touch the right wall and begin to drag my hands softly against the stone.

_Three stones left, the four below.  
Two stones right, the three above.  
One stone left for the two below_

Over and over I whisper it, my fingers singing tenderly against the stone. _I know this place. This deep darkness of night below the streets of Buda. The pitter patter of running feet awakened by my steps. _My voice drops to silence.

...and I see the pattern as Urith placed it, whispering, in my ear…

The fifteen symbols surrounded by the myriad of runescript guarding the wall from intrusion.

_Blind to sight…unable to glimpse where my hands lie._

But I remember the crumbling hall as it was, my child's mind filled with wonder at the map of our history…a senseless maze, the roads of our past tracked in stones. Thousands of stones, each laid out in a brilliant mosaic of keys unsung by those unable to comprehend the atrocities committed by our flourishing coven.

_Only in darkness can one read the runescript. Once the light comes, it is lost for the lines upon the stone do not reveal their secrets to the shadows of flame._

_But where is the first stone?_ I had asked her…afraid of this wild creature, unbending to the laws of the vampires.

_To find your past, you must start at the beginning_, Urith had murmured, swiftly handing me the mark before she loped to her forest, unwary of danger with the advent of the moon.

If I could be so bold. And so I whisper to her, even as the rat scurries from the hunter approaching in our midst. I whisper to my growing child. _I will not shy from my onus._ I will complete my part of the bargain. _A life for a life._

Still the runes grow lighter. And soon they are gone.

_I turn from the wall, the pattern stitched in my thoughts._

Two days he has traveled since word reached the North Shore. He carries a torch, breathing heavily, and already he can smell the scent of unknown on my person…the wildness of Urith. _Gathered sage from the one who is dead to the pack_.

His eyes fill with horror, knowing my purpose…where I stand.

_The shadow of uncertainty plays across my face as the night beckons softly, and my lover stands in light, begging me to abandon my purpose. I cannot see his eyes and stumble past, the leather and oak wafting from his weary frame. I have the pattern and the mark. Tonight I must find my way to the tower. I must seek the body of Gode._

But he seizes my hand, wrenching me roughly into his grasp, pleading softly into my hair. Desperately weaving my name into a mantle that would veil me from disastrous flight, _Sonja_, he twists…_do not do this…_he whispers…_please._

_But the story darkens._

I wordlessly watch the burning flame, shivering with the chill of this forgotten tomb, silently quelling my tears as they cut through his touch. Urith has warned me.

_Until my burden is lifted, it is as if the child does not exist. _

My lover does not know of my pact. Exhausted from his journey, he does not sense the third heart beating by his chest. _And yet…_I cannot carry this burden alone, and, impulsively, I whisper the pattern and mark to the warrior at my side.

_Tonight_, I reveal to him…_or it is lost._

_She is lost_, I think.

It is our only chance while Viktor remains to the North, one day slow to follow rumours of traitorous creatures returning to his lands. I begin to whisper again the code of Urith, strengthening my will against my love. He will follow me…and as I drag myself from safety, it is as one that we journey secretly towards the tower in the early hours of dark morning. My lover, my child and I…_I will pay for this child_, I believe.

But it is Lucian who pays the price. The awakening powers of the sun force me to retreat to my chambers…and it is only he who stumbles to my bed, hours later, exhausted with the words "_It is done_."

There is a scent of mold and burning oil upon my shift, but I breathe relief, assured of my path into the next night…released of my bargain with the exiled bloodseekers. The body has been moved. My lover slumbers deeply, and upon his waking, we shall give Urith her sister. Only then may I _keep_ my daughter.

...and I will share our secret. _Soon_, I believe, watching as he breathes softly.

_His child…our child…_but always…_my child. _

Even when my father bursts through my chambers…_my child_.

Even as they whip the skin off my lover's back, I whisper softly, _mine_.

But when the light of burning flame strikes my face, it is only then that I realize…the child is dying as I am dying and my lover is dying.

_The mantle is torn from my head as the cinders of my child drift._

I begin to scream.


	3. Prologue II: A Gift for Urith

**Prologue II : A Gift for Urith**

_2002 A.D._

_The examination room had become a morgue._ _Cold fluorescent light casting a dull sheen across the steel walls and metal doors. Medical x-rays of vampiric bones and lycanthrope teeth pinned upon illuminated frames. Shadows darting across the still faces of men entering the room..._

Even as a dull pain began to rise in his chest, Corvinus stared calmly at the three bodies laid out before him... Two of them were encased in black…and the third, Amelia, draped like a queen, her skin spotless, save for the cruel gash where her throat had once been. And yet, he knew there was no time for mourning.

Instead, he turned to the two men accompanying him…

"Give me a moment."

Obediently, they withdrew, closing the door behind them.

_I must do this alone_, he thought, surveying the damage wrought over the passing night. Resolutely, he stepped between the tables, unzipping the bag to his left and casting aside the synthetic material to reveal…locks of hair…and blood.

He blinked, abruptly recalling the face of Lucian in his mind…and the presence of the key around his neck.

_Their paths had never crossed, but due to his position as leader of the lycan hoard and the unwitting warden to William's tomb, Lucian had been under constant surveillance for the last eight centuries. Hard to keep track of, to say the least. He moved swiftly and frequently, a commander-in-chief bound by his own death and thus, unable to walk above the underworld._

_Perhaps you have found peace at last_.

With this final consideration into the breadth and depth of Lucian-that-was, Corvinus parted the lycan's shirt to remove the key.

Only to be greeted with more hair, more blood and a medley of silver-encrusted bullet-holes. Indeed...

...the key was missing.

He frowned pensively in his confusion. _Lucian would never have removed it..._ Even in his exile, the lycan master had continued to bear the one piece of history that could identify him…a pendant worn by his beloved wife, though she had been dead for almost a millennium.

_Selene and Michael…I pray they had the presence of mind._

Immediately, Corvinus strode purposefully towards the final form at the end of the room, leaving the lycan to his slumber. It would be a long night and the second key still lay in a more treasured resting place.

...o...

It was only after slicing Viktor's chest open and retrieving it that he called the brigadier and his subordinate back to the room. With them came the two special force units he had requested…men he had used before and trusted with his life. Corvinus nodded to the two senior officers, notifying them that they were free to continue with the main course of action…finding the whereabouts of Markus. They saluted and left the room.

The two remaining men stood ready and waiting before their admiral.

"Your orders, sir?"

Corvinus turned towards them.

"Inform Vinutius. Amelia is to be returned, in state, to her coven. The remains of Viktor shall be incinerated. Send the ashes to Miklos."

He paused abruptly, staring at the disk in his palm…turning it slowly, allowing the shadows to dart about the metallic surface. He remained silent for a full minute…so much so that the first lieutenant finally probed a second question.

"And the third, sir? The lycans have been scattered, but there are rumours of several elders escaping the sewers. We can still track them…"

Corvinus shut his hand abruptly over the disk, enclosing it in darkness.

"No. Send the third to Aeduin. Tell him…" he paused…

"…tell him it is a gift for Urith."

"We will burn the third then?"

"No."

Unconsciously, the lieutenant blanched. However, maintaining some of his composure, he swallowed, hesitating only a moment before speaking his mind...

"Sir, might I suggest…the last we heard, the two were in a severe state of hiding. It would be easier to remain unseen with a less cumbersome package."

At this, Corvinus began to turn the disk slowly in his palm once more…beguiled by its auspicious designs. Eventually he looked up, staring the man in the eye...

"Why burn a body that still breathes, lieutenant?"

The lieutenant licked his lips, unsure of where this was going. But, finally, he answered the Admiral as best as he could... "With all due respect, sir, the lycan is dead. We checked his vitals…his organs…there's more silver in his veins than blood…his heart has stopped."

"In that case, you will _still_ send the body unburned to Aeduin and Urith. Believe what you will, lieutenant, but that lycan is not dead."

Dropping the disk in his pocket, Corvinus left the room. This was no time to be worrying over these trivial matters which paled in comparison to the approaching tide that would be Markus. The men should be glad they had the option of journeying to the lower reaches of the underworld for a night. Still…at the end of the hall, he stopped, turning on his heel to face the men once more.

"One more thing…"

The men stood to attention, hiding their anxiety over having to sneak a full-grown body of a lycan down to the world _below _the underworld. Corvinus, aware of their displeasure at the task, merely cocked an eyebrow.

"…while you're there, be sure to notify Urith…if she continues trading in unlicensed goods for the underworld, I will have her neck. Ultraviolet ammunition is one thing, but this particular feat of science wasn't supposed to go on the market for another decade."

And with that, he turned the corner and was gone.

The lieutenants looked at each other, confused, but unfaltering in their loyalty to Corvinus. Without another word, they each grabbed an end of the body bag and began to hoist the undead lycan warlord, their thoughts and faces plainly showing the fear they could no longer hide.

_I wonder…_the second lieutenant squinted fretfully with his eyes darting over their cargo…

…_do they still keep that three-headed dog?_

The other lieutenant…noticing his comrade's apprehension and unwilling to journey with such a jumpy companion, decided to silence the man's obvious question.

"Yes." He said directly, causing the other man to flinch before losing his grip and dropping one end of the bag unceremoniously on the ground. The man needed to be calmed down.

He nodded slowly to his companion. "They still keep Deirdre." He motioned him to pick up his end of the bag again.

"Now let's move."

_Best be firm about it_, he thought, watching the other man firmly grab the end of Lucian once more…_ God knows there'll be no beating around the bush once we're down there. _

The two men tottered on deck to find Vinutius before boarding a vacant helicopter with their burden. One of the pilots would take them as far as the western reach…a mere ten minute journey. From there, they would have to go on foot towards the wood. The helicopter would be required back at base within the hour.

When they returned…if they returned…it would be on foot.

_A hard mission indeed._

Still…he prayed for a long night. Any mortals found traipsing among the tombs during daylight hours were as good as dead…especially if they were moving slowly. Hindered with a deadweight lycan covered in blood, their party would more than likely just attract the scent of far worse creatures than good old Deirdre.

However…he'd keep that bit of information to himself for now.

No sense in unnerving his companion any further.


	4. Prologue III: Child of Cinders

_**Note**: This chapter has changed as of June 9th, 2006. Shortened and reworked. For anyone wondering, it starts where the very end of Underworld Evolution ends off_..._please do read and review_..._

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**Prologue III : Child of Cinders**

_2002 A.D. _

_Two days later...A bridge stands broken beneath rays of sun and the dark shadows of a crevice. _

Caught in the wonder of a child, she turns, hand trembling…  
…_shivering _with awe and dread as the light warms her calloused fingers.  
A single flicker o' fear before her lips are hushed by the slow tears falling from sky's edge...  
Dawn touching streams and snow about her watchful face so carefully…  
...so very lost as she blinks unseeing beneath the forgotten star…

_Embraced by a hybrid sun of wolves._

_Hope is on her lips._

_Life is in her chest…_

…_while below…_

Two eyes _burn_ beneath the castle ruin as breath passes through a mangled form.  
A strange feeling as the air touches her ashen skin. A storm building within the darkness.  
But the creature…small and light. She pushes a single palm against the stone.  
And pits her tiny strength against a rock of a thousand years. Pushes…_pushes_…

…_until…the wall caves upon the ground._

And cloaked within darkness, once more she crouches naked…  
Laughing with delight as cinder and dust smear upon the gold of her hair  
…giggling through tears falling bitter from her ruthless eyelids…

_Viktor is dead…  
Amelia is dead…  
Markus is dead…_

…_and with the death of three…_

A sharp intake of breath…blue eyes widening above the grounds…

…_a seal is broken._

The raven of shadow grows stiff in his arms, her trained gaze shifting to the grounds below…  
Searching through the torrent of death being chanted like a ghost beneath the rock.

"Michael…" she breaks, her lips opening in shock. The horror in her chest as an unleashed demon begins to leach through her mind, roiling the blood of her past, demanding she join the flank of madness as first among soldiers…

…but seeing no evil, the sun by her side touches her black feathers softly,  
trying at once to soothe night in the face of the dawn.

"Sele…" he whispers.

"…_GO!_" she snarls, the raven grasping his hand to throw their unwary bodies from the damaged wood,  
flying with her sun of wolves as the world begins to collapse, dragging them down beneath the stone-swallowed tears of sky,

_The true birds of morn darting above death…_

…as the entirety of a long-forgotten castle _crumbles_ into darkness,  
Walls crashing upon the ground, bridges falling through chaos  
and the stones of an empire surrendering to the mountain spine…  
Crumbling in the space of thunder to be swallowed by the mere below…  
…the surrounding waters swelling in the wake of utter ruin.

_The birds are fallen._

And with a final ripple, the ancient home of Viktor, the abandoned tomb of William,  
and the breath of two warriors sacrificed to the demon below...are gone.

_Washed upon the shore, cinder lies crooning over a raven in slumber.  
Humming, she twists her prey's neck between claws of silver  
And washes black feathers ripped from its head._

Finally...

_Satisfied with the work she has made, the girl laughs in delight  
and raises her claws to be carried from the Northern Shore. _

The raven takes her on its wing...  
And a blood-wrenching cry pierces the morning sun  
As the waking child born of cinder and dust...

..._begins to scream_.

...o...

...o...

_Miles away_…

A lycan twists in the darkness, gasping silently as if in a dream. Unnerved from the voiceless scream still echoing through her subconscious, she rises from the ground, stealing down a wall in the pitch black of day, steps darting and shifting until she finds the one she seeks…

_Aeduin…the Second Knot._

Wrapped in his layer of sleep, she knows he lies curled beneath the rock and stone of their den, hidden from demons by the safety of silence and claustrophobia. But sniffing persistently, she finds the gap near ground and crawls on hands and knees below the rock, careful of pebbles and gravel, but easily circumventing the gaping holes that might lead another, less knowledgeable traveler to a twelve-story fall. Finally at his side, she shakes the slumbering Aeduin awake, her hand leashed across his mouth, the claws of her left hand and feet binding him against any unconscious struggle.

_Any who would sleep below ground during the darkness of day must be either very foolish or very trained in their silence, being able to wake, breathe, struggle, and fight without a hint of noise. The Two of Knots represent the latter end of this dichotomy, however, Urith, still playful as a pup at times, prefers to cut her companion's circulation off while suffocating him. _

_Very mature…_

In the darkness, Aeduin rolls onto his back, slipping through her iron grip, blindly facing her as she moves her palm from his mouth, giving him space to breathe. Searching, he takes the hand in his own, and calmly begins signing words upon her palm.

"_I was dreaming…"_

Her fingers tighten in the darkness, and she answers, taking his left palm as he holds her right. The signs come quickly…the product of almost four centuries of silent days.

"_Of what?"_ She signs, running a thumb lightly across his wrist to indicate a shrug.

He raises her smaller hand to his mouth and blows on it. _The dream is trivial and not really worth speaking on_…but laughing (a short flick on her pinky finger) the Second Knot slowly signs out the words of his dream.

"_Birds…flight. I think I flew in the dream, but only for a moment. There were many stones…large and heavy. The stones brought me down and I sank through water to the bottom of a sea…"_

"_We have already sunk to the bottom of earth…" _She breaks through his words, her nails growing an extra centimeter to scratch lightly across his palm in irritation. _"Nowhere left to go now."_

"_Perhaps…" _He grips her hand for a moment, pausing, and then signs again. "…_but in the dream, Urith, I swam up from the water…and I was alone. The birds were gone…and my wings had fallen." _Tapping a claw pensively against her palm without breaking skin, he ends his words with a dull flick, expressing a pensive sigh and the need to speak on other matters.

"_Tell me…" _He shrugs, thumb running across her wrist. _"…why do you walk during day, Urith?"_

A simple question…but her wrist lies dead upon the stone, Urith silent, her fingers locking up as the lycan by her side waits patiently, knowing she will speak when ready. Sheltered as they are in darkness, floating upon the stone, their hands bound upon each other, it is as if the two foot space above their heads could stretch for eternity into the sky, save for the scent of enclosure and the stale air moving through the tunnel. Many minutes go by in this dark hole of rock, their coffin of stone…and still she stares into the darkness, thinking to herself without speech. Thinking on what her eyes have seen…

"_Valhalla is almost finished, is it not?"_ she asks, sniffing the stale air they have grown accustomed to…so much so that journeys above ground have a strange odor about them. As if too much life exists in the air above.

"_Yes."_

"_And how many could sleep within its walls, Aeduin?"_

"_Many." _He answers, and then… "_Why?"_ His palm wonders, turning face-up between thumb and index finger, tapping once to indicate confusion.

"_I had a vision…dark." _She says, her hand forming a fist and shaking twice upon his palm for the last word. Immediately, feeling the symbol "dark" against his skin, Aeduin's hand rests in silence, waiting until she has told all…

…and she does. An hour of silent speech, recounting on his palm the horror she has seen in her dream. The scream she still hears echoing through dawn.

The vision she has seen.

_Viktor is dead…  
Amelia is dead…  
Markus is dead…_

…_and with the death of three…_

_A seal is broken._

_An unknown creature has been loosed_.

_A disease with no apparent cause that spreads through bite and blood…_

Sweeping through ranks one by one, she decimates immortals as they slaughter one another, unwary of her nature,  
Their sleepless minds caught in a waking madness through which mothers stab their own children as blackouts come to an end.

Prowling through streets, unable to burn the itch from their skins and pelts,  
Groups on both sides declaring war on madness, waging this grave crusade against all those infected…

Steering their gaze sideways as self-preservation has them exterminate friends…family…and loved ones.  
Slaying them swiftly before mortals can _suspect_ the one word immortals have kept silent for so long…

_Plague…_

A dissonance of lives changed in the blood of a single bite…  
Slouching creatures whose bodies smell of mold and decay…

_Death ravaged, rotting arms torn off, their eyes infested…  
_Indeed, it is best to _kill_ these putrid creatures in their madness,

Best to end their misery before sordid mad-eyes could _feast_ off the blood of immortals, vampires and lycans alike.  
For in a fortnight, once the rot had ravaged their bodies…

…_if a creature of mad-eyed rot could survive long enough_…

Their soul would die…  
Their memories would die…  
…but worst of all…

The blood would _cease_ within their veins.

And empty, they would rage on…these maddened fiends,  
Stronger than hybrid, lycan, _or_ vampire…  
These fatal demons of the Underworld who had no memories of their past.  
No mind for their future. No thought for their present.

Only the insatiable hunger for blood which could never quench the emptiness of vanished souls.

_Her hand lies dead on his palm, and for several minutes, Aeduin himself is quiet, still thinking on her words. Finally, he touches her face softly, knowing her thoughts…and takes the small hand in his own._

"_You saw the creature?" _he signs, tranquil in his words, but shaken to his core.

"_No."_

"_But you still wish to give them slumber when the time comes…"_

She pauses before answering.

_Such cruelty the lycans have wrought upon the Two of Knots… Centuries ago, Gode had warned them of what was to come…she had warned them. And now, due to Lucian's malice, where three Knots were needed, there were only two…_

…indeed, they could yield to vengeance. Kill the lycan master in his slumber. Desecrate his body and leave it for the demons below. Allowing no trace of the one who hounded them for the sake of a dead vampire. _The one who stole Gode's body. Judging them _worse_ than dead to the pack, for centuries, he hunted them with his warriors so two Knots might be banished from both vampires and lycans alike. _

_And yet…_

"_Yes." _She says, her fingers closing on her last words, as if to say, it is decided. _"…we will give the rotten hounds their slumber when the time comes…"_

Aeduin raises an eyebrow, cupping her wrist with his index finger and thumb. _"Such gentleness, Urith. Perhaps you grow soft in the darkness of this tomb?"_

"_Perhaps…" _Urith smiles carelessly in the darkness, her nails grazing his palm. _"…but all know there is a price to be paid for slumber, One-eye…"_

"_...and they will pay it."_ He finishes, returning her nail-grazing smile, stroking his claws pensively across her wrist before enfolding her small hand, letting their silent speech draw to a close.

_Daylight stands…and they must rest for the night ahead._

Standing on the brink of catastrophe, the Two of Knots drift into sleep, their fear of the dark and demons burned from years of running beneath a non-existent sun, their humour now trained upon death and the gnashing of teeth.

...o...

...o...

_But take note, all who hear beyond the black stratagems of Urith... _

..._the plague begins that night. _

Immediately, the wolves of the pack seek life through Raze, the mourning second of Lucian,  
while in keeping, the bats of two covens find leadership in ancient Miklos, first bloodseeker and advisor to Lord Viktor himself.  
Within months, both groups have culled the first wave of disease, sweeping their ranks for any sign of resurgence…

…_only to meet a second…  
_  
…and a _third_ round of madness rocking the heart of order while throwing immortals through a year-long tragedy of _slaughter_ before they find their wits.  
_  
For how can a race survive by slaying its own?_

_And so it comes that those infected buy their time from the demon's snare…_

…allowing their bodies to be withered and wasted, while those blessed with power save their race in the static regions of hibernation where disease halts its track. As is their way, the vampires rely on Miklos and the ancient slumber of lore geared towards blood-sucking immortals of old. The lycans, however, are lost and scattered upon the winds. Desperate times dictate they must find their _own_ way through the madness, turning, through a dull shade of irony, to meet the Two of Knots and their gift of science and hibernating slumber below ground. A truce for the sake of life.

All-the-while, the war continues, rulers of both species waiting on cures and blind hopelessness.  
Vampire fighting lycan. Lycan fighting vampire. While from the day of a Death-dealer's seeming demise…hybrids are lost to legend.  
But even as they stalk the upper reaches of the Underworld, saving the lycan hoard one by one,  
the Two of Knots continue preying upon the_ one who might still save their hides_…

…_Lucian_.

The alpha whose body remains trapped in eternal slumber, his conscience unwilling to wake for the sake of two fiends such as the Knots. The lycan master whose mind and secrets hold strong the long-lost key to the Third Knot's hidden body. A pattern lost since the day a vampire wife burned to ashes and a war erupted upon the face of immortal earth.

_Indeed, without Gode…all is lost._

And as to the cause of this merciless disease?  
…the blood-wrenching cry of this child of cinders.  
This _Cinderella_ of the wolfen clan...

She disappears laughing into the night,  
Her mirth stretched across the wailing of husbands, wives, and children shot down,  
Her song _hidden_ from the Two of Knots…  
...hidden from those who might seek to cage the beast.

_And save for the hint of a blood-wrenching cry breaking free of stone on a mountain spine…_

…_no one knows who the beast was._


	5. Chapter 1: Introducing Victoria Reed

**Chapter 1: Introducing Reed**

_Four years later._

_A rising star in the heavens of British academia, Miss Victoria Reed represented the finest of art historians. Graduating in the top of her class, she published articles, attended conferences…even had the words "critically acclaimed" attached to her during interviews. "Why, she'll be lecturing within the year," they joked … "No, no, old boy…tenure by her mid-twenties, shall we bet?" guffawed the professors. Indeed, a great many things were expected of Miss Reed…and so it was with great astonishment that the entire British world watched her pack her bags and fly from fame and fortune…_

…to Hungary. Not for a conference ("what?" cried Professor Worthington) or even a lecture ("egad!" yelled her graduate advisor) …but instead, to work in a worn down auction-house in the middle (make that the edge) of Budapest. Of course…considering her impressive background, she was immediately welcomed with open arms, a steady income, and her own office…

…as a low-level researcher trapped on the dilapidated fourth floor. (After all, someone had to make the photocopies, even if that someone was _well_ on her way to becoming the leading authority in medieval manuscripts _and_ old master drawings.) And yet, despite her obvious drop in status, Miss Victoria Reed had yet to complain…for you see, over the last two years, no one had been actually able to _find_ her.

It was true, by all accounts, she was alive and well…her research notes were impeccable, her photocopies orderly…even her office showed signs of use (the odd tea-bag and shuffle of handwritten pages lying on the ground.) Most members of the staff could even recall her existence and were uniformly quite sure that she had dark hair and…well, dark hair.

However, regarding contact…only one person had the power to track down the elusive Miss Reed (who was hardly _ever_ for want anyway considering her position.) A Mr. Nigel Courting...another British expatriate whose potential romantic associations with the mysterious researcher provided whole seconds of lunchroom gossip for the bored employees. Particularly considering how Mr. Nigel Courting was not only quite dashing, but happened to be the benefactor keeping the whole place up and running.

Nonetheless…it might have surprised most of the staff to find that Victoria Reed, or "Reed" as she preferred to be called, actually spent a great deal of time at the office. In fact, she came everyday…and was currently to be found squatting under a heap of brooms, pails, mops, and a number of household items smelling vaguely of Dettol. Her toes were starting to cramp…her back was complaining…her knees had already given up ages ago…but wait…

…_I need my _knees, she thought vacantly. It was simply a case of mind over matter. _Mind over matter…Now come on, Reed…concentrate!_ If she could just slide out her right leg and nudge the blasted piece of gadgetry to the left…

...she might be able to grab it with a hand.

_My hand…_

Alright…she'd be able to grab it _after_ she freed her hand from the enormous stack of brooms, boxes, and Ajax it was holding up…_still quite simple_, she thought gingerly…

…before allowing a wail to crop up in her head. _For crap's sake, you just had to drop it, didn't you?_ _You even had a split-second choice, but noooo, not the toilet paper…surely not! I mean really…now that we're trying to make a silent getaway…_

…_why on earth would you drop toilet paper when you can drop an ALARM trigger? Just brilliant! Couldn't have thought of it myself! Crap, Nigel_..._guess you found me…guess I'm in trouble…but hey, no worries! I've got toilet paper! And it's CLEAN!_

The wail fell silent (in her head) as Reed began to grind her teeth ferociously_ And to think it had started so well!_ She even had a routine for goodness' sake…

Her skin would prickle, she'd pack her things, dump her tea, and poof, head for the fire-escape down the hall. _Like clockwork! _No one else worked the floor so, logically, she timed the prospective "run-in" by assuming she only had a mere three minutes before anyone reached the corridor. However, this didn't include the extra five minutes they spent _waiting_ for the damn lift! _Everything_ had been on schedule until Nigel, for the first time in his life, decided to use the stairs. _Nigel! Of all the people…_she was almost spluttering_…never does anything…he'd use a taxi to cross the road if he could!_ But apparently, as of today, he'd taken to sprinting like the _March Hare _so that one _minute_ into grabbing her things, she'd heard a stair-door open three rooms down!

Naturally, she'd been forced to throw herself in the most _awkward_ fashion into her own broom closet…at which point, the broom closet had thrown itself most awkwardly on _her_. She'd managed to catch it all (including a steel pail that missed her head by _inches_), but had ended up dropping _everything else_ she'd been holding at the time…including the alarm she'd just set for eight minutes, two minutes ago!

Having vented her overwhelming frustration, the dark-haired Reed began to timidly adjust her squat…it would be no easy matter moving every item silently from her arms and back to…somewhere else…without dropping the whole shebang. _She shouldn't even be here…_

He always gave her notice before coming upstairs (a casual note left on her fire-escape in preparation for the next week's visit), knowing full-well how she felt about…_people_. Even when items went "missing" or were "stolen", he still gave her warning. And besides…they always came back again…he knew that...and for goodness' sake…she hadn't taken anything really _large_ this time…quite trivial really, just…

…the entire silver collection of the Kovacs lot.

_Nooo_, she thought blushingly. _It was just a tiny…little…piece. One item_…

…which put a screeching halt to the _rest_ of the entire silver collection of the Kovacs lot being sold in this morning's well-documented and highly publicized auction.

_You take one, you take them all_, she thought with a hint of remorse…_no wonder he sprinted…_

…_but since when has my conscience had a problem with stealing for study? I mean really, it's for an excellent cause…although if he fires me…_her face fell a tad more_…alright, Reed…do _try_ and see the silver-lining…_she paused with a slightly furrowed brow, considering her current arena…four minutes to go…

_Oh of course…there it is…_

…_at the very least, if the alarm _does_ go off, I won't have to listen to him rifling through my desk any longer!_ And, by the sounds of it, he'd moved on to her filing-cabinet! Granted she may be a thief, but…

_This is illegal!_, she silently shrieked with a glower before muttering (silently and) darkly to herself. _I should confront him…pummel him to the ground, yelling "Get the hell out of my office!" Beat him with a dustpan._ But…personality dictated otherwise. Reed wasn't the most upfront of people. She was sneaky…a fox…she'd fight…kick…scratch…

…and she'd rather sniff Ajax for another hour than confront Nigel.

Or anyone for that matter.

_Besides…sooner or later, he's bound to realize it's not there._ C_all it quits…_she heard metal scraping across the floor and smirked_…not _behind_ the file cabinet either…_really, if he didn't expect her to be in the office, why would she leave her latest conquest here?

_I don't have it, Nigel! It's at home! _Reed gruffly mouthed the words at the door…_And I'm bloody-well keeping it, you prat!_

Abruptly, her eyes gleamed harshly, a vicious air exuding from her countenance... _You know…_ Her mind began to whisper soothingly _…this could be solved with a quick slice to the…_bile…building in her throat as Reed caught herself, the light dying.

She swallowed…apologizing silently to the door… _I'm sorry, Nigel…I didn't mean to say that… didn't…want to say that…_a vague whimper on her lip before she forced her thoughts elsewhere. She would not cry…_no point_, she reasoned…_tears never helped anyone and moreover this really isn't the time, Reed._

But the closet seemed so dark suddenly. _It could not…be here_, this voice. And it could _not_ choose when to speak…_why couldn't she stop thinking about it_…she must have imagined it…

…a figment. _One that whispered horrible things into her mind…and spoke of things she'd never seen…and places she'd never been._ It can't be real...and yet she hated it. Waiting in the shadows…ringing circles around her sanity. Thoughts that were not her own…visions of killing…wolves…_not wolves…_something else…she would be laughing…and she was…

…cruel.

Reed bit her lip, closing her eyes…_you've got to keep in control, Reed. It's been what? A year_..._year and a half? That's excellent considering…only two black-outs. And who really knows? It could easily have been a deep sleep…both times waking up in your apartment…that's all. Probably waited too long on your insulin…_

She slowly stretched her foot a little further…determined to keep her spirits up. Really…_besides the loss of sanity_, things _weren't_ as bad as they seemed. Not only had nothing moved in the last six minutes (other than the watch,) but the enemy, as yet, remained completely unaware of her position. _By all rights, I should be on my way home…and he knows I'd never store the item in here…even for a night, it's far too much humidity…_she eyed a water stain on the ceiling…this building was getting old.

_I suppose it could even constitute as a semi-plausible excuse…safe keeping. As an art historian, I felt it was my duty to bring the item home…and unfortunately, forgot it there…makes perfect sense in a world missing that highly insignificant feature known as sanity. And if I hadn't stolen it, who knows what could have happened? It could be anywhere by now…this way, he at least knows the thief, the hideout, and…_

…_Ah good…_her left hand was free. Indeed it was now quite possible she might make it out of here…as long as Nigel kept away from the broom closet. The emancipated hand began to reach slowly towards the floor... _After all…who _really_ hides in a broom closet? Far too predictable..._

(She tried to mentally beat down the little goose-prickles informing her that it was only a matter of time before Nigel came stomping over.)

Another quick glance to the ground…_almost there_…and…_ha!_

The little swatch ticked in horror as she snatched it in her fist…and click…turned the approaching alarm off. Reed's face burst into a grin…_Excellent work, Agent Bond Girl Extraordinaire…you my dear, are on fire!_

She had survived the eight minutes…

Any moment now, Nigel would come to his senses, realize he knew where she lived and dart off towards her apartment like any normal and efficient hunter.

Naturally…as his prey, she'd be spending the night elsewhere. Perhaps the sewers if she could slip through the subway again. Might be a good idea to skip work too…let the old bugger cool off over the next day or four...

_That's right Reed…keep your chin up. Mark my words, you'll be in moonlight within the next ten minutes…_

Her eyes unconsciously flicked up to the heavens.

That is to say, _if_ the dangling assortment of sharp, metal objects situated above her head didn't fall. Or that unruly stack of syringes. In fact, according to her calculations, if she kept her back angled just so, she might even be able to reach her arm around that nasty little…

The door swung open.


	6. Chapter 2: The Blue Eyed Demon

_Note: This chapter has been altered as of May 21, 2006._

_I changed and shortened it…a bit easier on the eyes now. Converted Nigel into a dictionary entry. Ah, academia. I'm still having trouble figuring out how much is too much writing for one chapter. Please read and review if you have time..._

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Blue-Eyed Demon**

"What the hell were you **thinking**?"

"_Obviously I wasn't or you wouldn't have caught me…"_ she muttered darkly under her breath, still mortified that Nigel had managed to drag her thrashing _and_ screaming from the broom closet. (Screaming being an gargantuan overstatement since (a) Victoria Reed never screamed, (b) it was more of a high-pitched mewl anyway and (c) it wasn't her fault the cockroach felt like getting chummy _right_ when the blue-eyed demon, sometimes referred to as Nigel, opened the door!)

Having already desecrated her office, it had only taken him two minutes to storm through her satchel, ransack her closet, and pronounce the item _stolen_ (without so much as a by your leave!) He could have asked her for goodness' sake and of course she would have...

…lied.

_But he could have asked!_ _A mere courtesy…the second anything goes missing, quick as a wink, he thinks Reed! We might have to rethink our friendship after this_, she thought with a grumble, still searching her sleeve for the cockroach which had disturbingly evaporated after crawling up her arm. Judging the whereabouts of the scurrying insect to be somewhat more important than Nigel's persistent questions, she had spent the last hundred "are you mad/what the hell were you thinking/do you have any idea" queries in a dogged, half-muttering gag of silence while shaking out her favourite blend-with-the-crowd jacket (brown suede, faded, unassuming, and unfortunately, **full** of pockets…of which one had probably become the home of her new best mate, Cockroach.)

_I mean, yes, _she admitted cagily, taking a moment to drape her jacket daintily upon the ground before stomping ferociously along the sleeve several times. _…the last time it was me_… She sighed and began slamming the jacket against the wall, causing a cloud of dust to rise jadedly through the air. …_and maybe even a smidgeon of times before that, but… HACHOO! _She sneezed on the dust and began waving her hands about her face, trying simultaneously to clear the air and frown at the injustice of it all…

…_eight out of ten times does not mean I'm always the culprit!_

(As far as she knew, Nigel was unaware of the two times she'd filched from his own personal wine stock..."For research purposes only"…and such lovely bottles of Tokaji Aszu. Excellent vintage…quite expensive. Such a shame that they went missing, but they might have been _ruined_ if she hadn't stolen…_that is, to say_…acquired them through unauthorized means…)

Finally satisfied that her coat was insect-free, Reed shrugged it back on and turned to face her chief adversary, employer, and near-on best-friend besides Cockroach…that is to say…Nigel, the blue-eyed demon!

…_or as they say in the library…_

"A Study of Mr. Nigel Courting as a Dictionary Entry", imagined solely by the analytical mind of Miss Victoria Reed as she glares heatedly at Nigel while he waits for her to answer his questions. (Full stop)

**Nigel Courting**_ (noun) – Pronunciation ('nai-jul kore-ting)_

**Definition:**

**(1)** Tall, red-haired, and renowned for his well-groomed charm, the irresistible Nigel Courting is a suave creature whose main accomplishment in life is a talent for coaxing females (and males) into swoons by removing his glasses. _(Notation: Even Reed must admit…those airy blue eyes are exquisite…particularly while he chews on that damned pen of his.)_

_Exhibit A: Airy Blue Eyes (photograph stolen from side-cabinet in Nigel Courting's office)_

**(2)** Not only is he genetically blessed with the face of a pouting angel (this occurs _after_ puberty of course), Nigel has managed to screw half of London's elite into thinking a dilapidated auction house is a good investment. _(Notation: No doubt he waits until after the act to mention the address as "#1 Crap Neighbourhood, Budapest, Hungary.")_

_Exhibit B: Pouting Angel Face (photograph stolen from Nigel Courting's wallet)_

**(3)** Pyromaniac _(Notation: Enough said.) _

_Exhibit C: Matches, Lighter, Flint (flaming equipment stolen from Nigel Courting's left pocket)_

Etymology: (Middle English _Nigel Courting_, from Latin _Blue Eyed Demon,_ from Slang _Wanker)_

Used in a Sentence: _They'd known each other since childhood, and it was a wonder how Reed's obsessively neat footsteps had taken her along such a scruffy path, while **Nigel Courting**'s incredibly rank (and unspeakably nerdy) beginnings had blossomed into a most fiery and enchanting dahlia (fit for her majesty's garden as long as her majesty's extremely attractive maid happens to be walking through it.)_

As a final note…_besides being gorgeous, lazy, and rich…Mr. Nigel Courting also has a slight temper problem. As seen in the following quote:_

"What the hell were you **thinking**?" 

_Reed snapped out of her reverie, aware suddenly that her mind had wandered again…_

The blue-eyed demon was currently pacing through the room, waving his hands in the air, and kicking out at odd intervals in his effort to get rid of the furious energy that suggested he murder Reed…or perhaps that was just common sense talking. After all, why not kill her? She'd just slaughtered his career, sent every ounce of his credibility packing back to England, stolen from his auction house since the day she'd arrived, and dipped into his wine storage! (The little thief was still under the impression that his Tokaji Aszu collection was something he checked only once in five years.)

Reed grimaced slightly…she hadn't meant to hurt him, but there was no way they could auction the silver now that she was _this_ close to finding out what happened to Ambrose. And as much as she hated to lie _right_ after stealing from Nigel, there wasn't much choice in the matter. This had to be quick and efficient, and judging by how he _loved_ to rampage, the yelling could go on all night and she _really_ had to be getting home…not to mention, she'd have to eat soon. Her blood sugar was getting low…

She cleared her throat and began her speech. "Nigel, dear, you must understand…it was a _complete_ accident."

CRASH!

Her favourite Michelangelo desk lamp was now lying in pieces on the floor.

_Hmph…alright…option number two then._ Reed straightened her shoulders, preparing herself to speak the truth…something that hardly ever happened these days. "And by 'accident', I meant to say I stole the piece on purpose, and I _really_ am sorry…"

He flung a book at her, causing her to duck and grimace in horror as she realized that was her beloved copy of _Latin Palaeography : Antiquity and the Middle Ages_ that had just hit the wall. Nigel, on the other hand, didn't pause to take note as he ripped another book from the shelf and flung it at her feet, moving to the desk to see what else he could destroy.

"You're **sorry**? Well thank God for that!" He yelled.

CRASH! went the tea-set.

"Except hang on a minute…" Nigel exclaimed, pausing to glare at her as his foot casually ground a tiny porcelain cup into dust. "…the last time I checked, Reed, **sorry** didn't quite _cover_ the crowd of self-satisfied rich folk _gnashing_ their teeth at me this morning after realizing the auction was postponed!" He wrenched her Old Masters calendar off the wall and began ripping it into tiny pieces with a vengeance. "Do you have any idea how long we've been waiting for this day!" _Rip!_ "Oh wait…of course you do! You were _there_ when we set the date!" He held up a large portion left over from the decimated wall-hanging… "And according to the back of Mona Lisa's teeth, you even _wrote_ it on your bloody calendar!"

"But _Nigel_…"

He had his back to her now…muttering as he proceeded to rip Mona Lisa's head into even tinier pieces and fling them resentfully into the air. "_Bloody kleptomaniac…should have known with your damn…_"

"**Nigel**!"

"**WHAT?**" He roared back, his forehead set in an infuriated frown as he turned to face her, flinging the rest of Mona Lisa's head into the air. Breathing heavily, it appeared he was quite ready to start tearing into Reed's head now that he had finished with the calendar…definitely time to explain the situation in full.

"I _found_ it." She whispered conspiratorially, her eyes lit with an alarming fervour…cheeks flushed as she tried to reign in her overwhelming excitement. (The fact that her office and most of her belongings lay in shambles was utterly inconsequential beside the year and a half search which had come to an end two days ago.) _Nigel has to understand,_ she thought...

_...but apparently he didn't._

(Upon hearing her declaration, he had instead burst out laughing in a most maniacal fashion.)

"_You_... You _found_ it, Reed…come now, you don't say? I mean really…after the past year, I should _hope_ so…" he scoffed, already aggravated beyond measure. "…because unless this month's lead can magically wipe the auction house with the integrity it once had, I don't give a flying _shite_ if your mark happens to be _tattooed_ on his forehead!"

"But it's not a lead…" she replied decisively, still caught up in her own excitement, her hands trying not to tremble as she rocked on her heels. "The mark, Nigel…I _found_ the bloody mark."

_Every ten minutes…_Nigel grated to himself… E_very time I catch her with silver up her sleeve, she's always **found** something. Always the same excuse. A new lead…a new trail…a new…_he paused, finally noticing the words that had drifted through one ear and out the other only a moment ago…_something about having found the…_ "What?" he murmured, his eyes suddenly dead serious...serious and unconsciously _intrigued_.

"The mark, Nigel…I could _see_ the mark. It's on the silver…all of it. _Every_ piece…"

"How can you have…" his forehead scrunched into embittered confusion. "…Reed, there _is_ no mark. That's the point…" The blue-eyed demon crouched down to start gathering Mona Lisa's head so he could set fire to it in Reed's garbage pail. _Damn the sprinklers. Damn Mona Lisa. And damn silver. He might as well set fire to the entire auction house while he was at it seeing how they were ruined._ Out loud, Nigel continued, already having committed himself to doom. "Except for those sun-deprived historians over in Miskolc, there's no telling where the silver came from…" Stopping to search his pockets for a lighter, Nigel let out an incredulous scoff. "I mean really, who knows if they're even right? Any fool could have picked 'Kovacs' out of a hat…like asking who made the building and them answering 'builder'…you wouldn't happen to have a light, would you?"

Reed stalked over to confiscate her garbage pail from Nigel's miserable fingers. "No …" she crouched down to face him eye to eye. "…the anvil…two dots…and the line…it's actually _on_ there…"

He pouted. "Alright, stop…right there. Not wanting to burst your bubble, but…how is it possible that _every_ antique silver specialist in the country managed to miss your damn mark? Oh yes, I almost forgot…every specialist in the last _four years_ since that boat blew up…"

"Because _they_…" she grinned abruptly, her face aglow with the excitement of a secret, her voice dropping a notch as she whispered the end of her sentence. "…don't have to worry about losing power half-way through an examination."

"I'm sorry?" he queried, not sure he'd heard right and feeling vaguely irritated that she could _grin_ at a time like this. But what did it matter…he was burning the auction house tonight and killing himself. Let her have joy before she attended his funeral.

"I said…the power went out again two nights ago." Reed replied quietly, her fingers drifting to play with Mona Lisa in the garbage. "Except _this_ time, I was smack dab in the middle of inspecting one of the Kovacs cups, so I figured, might as well continue since the lights were _bound_ to come back in ten minutes or so."

"Speaking of which, Reed, you really ought to move out of that shack…" His nose was starting to scrunch woefully, and though the blue-eyed demon had settled down somewhat, she could tell he still very much wanted to burn something…best to keep his interest off the garbage pail (his eyes had started to stare glumly on the little pieces of paper she was twisting.)

"Just listen for a moment. Two nights ago, I was working on the cup and…" her words dropped off as she tried to comprehend herself what had happened. Something so odd she had repeated the test six times just to make sure she wasn't dreaming. "It was…it was completely dark and my fingers…they were against the silver. And Nigel, it was so _incredibly_ smooth along the lines…like I was walking on these pathways and all of a sudden, my fingers…in the center of the cup, I could just…_feel_ the mark."

"Excuuuse me?" Nigel's mouth had dropped skeptically, staring at her as if she'd lost her mind. "What do you mean you could just feel the mark? The cup's covered in designs…they all are. Every single piece in that damned collection is covered in lines…" _And by Jove, he was going out with a bang tonight. _He grabbed the garbage pail from her and stalked over to Reed's desk_. Old girl used to smoke from what he remembered, and there had to be a lighter around here somewhere._ "Besides…" he muttered "…how can you feel something that doesn't exist? I mean, for crap's sake, it's _not_ there…" He began removing the drawers for the second time that evening, having changed his target now that it was obvious the Kovacs cup was nowhere in the building. "They checked it with sensors, photographs, models…"

"Nigel…I guarantee you, it's there. I just need another…" she halted in her sentence, taking a moment to deliberate on how generous her employer (and near-on best friend) was feeling at the moment. It was obvious he wanted to kill himself, which (judging by all the other times he'd stood at a window ledge threatening to throw himself off if she didn't come out to dinner with him) made him reckless as a chicken with its head cut off. Perhaps reckless enough to give her…

"…four days."

Laughing abruptly, Nigel dropped on his bum. "Four days? Have you _completely_ lost your mind? You expect me to convince the government that not only was Monday a great day for auctioning, but hey, Wednesday's even better? Do I not look suicidal enough to you?"

"I know, but…" she started scheming again, muttering vaguely to herself and occasionally deigning to speak up for the sake of Nigel. "…look, it's Friday now…tomorrow I'm busy…Sunday I'll be documenting the cup. If the auction's on Monday, I won't have _any_ time left for the fieldwork and you know I have to figure this one out, Nigel…definitely before some grumbling money-monger snaps it up on Monday…" She took a stab, punching him in the arm and hoping he might feel relaxed enough after falling on his bum to forget the common sense that dictated he kill her. "Come on, mate…you owe me…"

"Since when?" he countered in a voice of woe, tossing the red locks attractively, flipping on his back, and staring mournfully at the ceiling. "You're a bloody _magpie_, Reed…and you speak of _owing._ Better yet, why don't we calculate the number of times I've gotten you out of the frying pan, eh? Or perhaps...why don't I save myself the trouble, fire up the stove and just eat you? It'll be much easier committing suicide if I can choke on your bones...would you mind?"

"Oh shut-up…it was your idea for me to work here…" she murmured, her voice low. "…and I know what you think, Nigel, but he wasn't raving... for two minutes of that mess, Ambrose _knew_ what he was talking about and I'll be damned if we let this go without knowing if what he said had _anything_ to do with what happened that night. Especially with this mark turning up after God knows how long…"

Nigel made a nonsensical groan at the ceiling and stared grimly at the dark-haired woman standing above him. He could burn everything now and kill himself, but no doubt, Reed would need the copy machine after Monday. Then she'd find his ashes and poke at them with a stick, berating him for having burned down the auction house without letting her get proper documentation. He must be losing his mind…

"Alright" he sighed theatrically… "you have your four bloody days…"

Without further ado, Nigel got lazily to his feet and started dusting off his trousers. "I'll just have to take that damn public relations woman out to dinner or something…though if she needs a shag, I'm not doing it, alright? You're on your own then. Now how is it you're busy tomorrow?"

Ignoring his question for a moment, Reed dropped to her knees and began shoving her hand brusquely through the shell of her desk (all the drawers having been removed,) crawling forward until only her bottom half could be seen from behind, the rest of her making its way firmly to the back end where a portion of wood slid out, revealing a small gap in the furniture. Her voice, faintly muffled, came out from underneath the desk. "For all your talk of calculating, you haven't the foggiest idea what day it is… Third weekend of the month, darling. I have to drive up to Visegrád to check on Ambrose…" Her fingers dipped inside, grabbing a pack of cigarettes and miniature lighter. She crawled back out again and jumped to her feet, raising an amused eyebrow at Nigel who still had no idea how to _really_ search an office.

His face contorted. "Bloody hell, you're not still using _them_, are you?" He flinched as Reed tossed the lighter at him, catching it at the last minute.

"If you're talking about siggs, no, I'm not…and if you're talking about Visegrád..." she sniffed, crumpling the pack of cigarettes with a sigh. "…well, it's not like I have a choice, do I? None of the other hospitals would take him after that insurance scandal. …I mean…yes, they're a bit dodgy…"

"A _bit_?" Nigel exclaimed, picking up the garbage pail Mona Lisa and offering it to Reed so she could add her crumpled siggs to the rest of his funeral pyre. "She was chewing a bone! No meat, Reed…just the _bone_…" Still unsatisfied with the size of his pyre, Nigel pointed at one of the self-help books he'd given her a year ago and looked to Reed for confirmation. The cover had already been ripped off, and what the hell, it was something to do with learning how to deal with fear of other people or some such nonsense. Reed nodded at his choice, before muttering "Alright, fine, so she's a little bit eccentric, but Urith knows what she's doing."

"Of course she does…" Nigel dropped the tome in the garbage and began searching for any other gifts he might have bestowed upon Reed in the past, still scoffing at the concept of Urith being a respectable doctor. "…besides lighting up in the middle of _every_ workday, she's a regular saint. Except, I could have sworn that…what was it?" He snapped his fingers for a moment, shaking his head mockingly as if he couldn't quite remember something. Suddenly, yesss, he began to nod to himself. "_Now_ I remember. But you're going to have to correct me if I'm wrong…was it _you_ she put in a coma for six months? Or was that Ambrose? I can never remember which one of you…" His voice drifted off as he continued his search, not even caring to hear her answer.

Reed glared at his back (he was flipping through another book), still unwilling to admit that, in truth, she couldn't remember herself how she'd dropped into unconsciousness. However, when in doubt, _lie_! (She made a point of consistently fabricating the same tale whenever the question came up over how _exactly_ two siblings ended up in a coma under the good doctor's care.)

Stalking over to the broom closet where her satchel still lay, she coolly pointed out "You know full-well Urith was standing across the room when it happened. Ambrose had started ranting again, and I _know_ I shouldn't have stepped so close, but…he's my twin, alright? How was I supposed to know he'd push me like he did…" Reed secured her satchel calmly around her neck and right shoulder, noting that as usual, Nigel remained quiet, ignoring her words whenever she lied about what happened.

_Of course, he knows it's not true…but what else does he want me to say? I saw Urith's eyes and now I can't remember anything?_

Apparently just realizing she had finished her generic speech of un-truth, Nigel lazily looked up from his book and announced with a most serious expression on his face… "Did you know the ancients used to wash out children's mouths with cooking oil after they lied?" He dropped the tome (self-help and the art of karma-sutra…he'd given it to her as a hint six months ago) in his garbage pail.

Reed started to giggle. "Oh shut-up…"

"You shut-up…ruining my life with your damn search." Nigel ran his fingers wearily through his hair, his mind drifting unhappily to the thought of Monday. _It would be a long weekend of phoning, faxing, and charming the pants off at least two members on the bidder's list…and Reed didn't have the faintest idea how difficult it would be. The publicity, the rescheduling, the stupid after-auction dinners…and no doubt he would have to shag that public relations woman._

_But not till tomorrow..._

Removing his hand from the now perfectly-disheveled hair on his head, Nigel abruptly shook his pail at her with a sly grin. "I'm off to burn my funeral pyre in the parking lot. Ring me if you find anything…or better yet, don't…my self-help guru thinks I need to spend time away from your constant stress and trauma." He tossed the lighter in the air, caught it again, and turned as he reached the doorway.

"And for crap's sake…" he frowned seriously. "…be careful."

And with that, the blue-eyed demon stalked heroically from the room, still intent on burning Mona Lisa's face into the concrete flat of the parking lot.

Reed, for her part, heaved a sigh of relief, keeping her eyes on the door as she waited for the tingle on her skin to die down and the sounds of Nigel to retreat from her floor. After another guarded moment of listening to complete silence, she flicked off the light-switch and crept over to the file cabinet, silently forcing the back open as she slid her pocket-knife between the cracks to knock open the third latch from the top. Darting her hand inside, she grabbed a sheaf of papers…fake identification, birth certificate, cash, a list of phone numbers…and closed the file-cabinet up again, her movements performed with precision…swiftly and quietly. Slinking over to the bookshelf, the researcher grabbed the three books she'd come for in the first place (before Nigel stormed her office) and made for the door, easily stepping over the broken shards of her office. She'd have to wait till after the weekend to clean up this mess…

…or at least until she'd figured out what the hell that mark had to do with Ambrose losing his mind two years ago.

She turned, locking the door behind her before jogging down the hallway towards the fire-escape. Checking outside the window and eyeing the streets, Reed grabbed the window latch, her thoughts now completely preoccupied with the next day's journey to the remote Farkas Hospice…and Urith...

_Urith..._

_Such a strange woman_…

_More than strange. Even without the drugs, she's always so unruffled…relaxing in that chair as if she'd just woken from a nap or something, but then…is it even real? The lethargy…_ A faint thought began to tickle at the corner of Reed's consciousness. …_it evaporates whenever she walks…almost as if she's…hunting…_

…_hunting like a…_

She stopped, her hand frozen on the window latch, having spent the last two years getting so cozy with the rural hospice…so much so that she hadn't even bothered to _think_ about the similarities between Urith and her workplace. _How could I not have_...her mind struggled in vain, until...

_Wolf…_ she realized, her eyes widening…and then creasing into a vaguely cold-blooded snicker. _Farkas means wolf._

And with that…

_The dark-haired Reed shrugged indifferently in the moonlight_

_and slipped through her window out into the night._

_No wonder I keep dreaming about…_

_...not wolves, she thought._


	7. Chapter 3: The Moonlit Breeze

_Update May 19, 2006:_

_Chapter 2: The Blue Eyed Demon added._

_And onto chapter three! (b__y the way, there's one reference to Shakespeare's Hamlet, another reference to the rhyme Wee Willy Winky, and one or two nods towards Mother Goose. They're all fairly obvious...if not, look it up...you're missing out if you don't know about a weird peeping tom who runs upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown. Hope you enjoy.)_

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**Chapter 3: The Moonlit Breeze**

_Miles away from Budapest, another creature had slipped into the night. Changing with the moonlight, she tore across the hills, a pack clutched in her claws…fearful of nothing._

_Old blood had crossed the walls of a small home, away from the city…_

…_its warmth had been extinguished and the doors lay wide open and swinging softly on the creaking hinges. Shredded furniture gutted in the dining room…a table had been overturned, its dishes broken and scattered about the rusty hatchet buried in the floorboards. Several books thrown haphazardly at the doorway, their pages turning themselves before hours later…_

…_a breeze flowed lazily through the open door._

_Dropping the empty carcass of a meal upon the carpet, the moonlit breeze began to move swiftly through the lower floor…_

She danced through the dining room…capered lightly into the kitchen…and twirled herself nimbly round the corridor where, stopping with an arm draped sensuously about the stair, she sniffed the heavens, resting a gun beneath her coat, a finger poised at the trigger. _Yes…_

…_there is definitely something rotten in the state of Denmark..._ she grinned wolfishly, her hand beginning to play a light tune upon the sticky banister. Removing her fingertips, she rubbed them together, taking a quick sniff before wiping them on the wall.

_Still here…_

…waiting above.

Silently, she picked her way up the staircase, her feet bare, stepping easily between the glass and over the youngling whose skull had been split…tawny eyes staring sightless at the ceiling. Golden tresses…a black dress…cut into strips with the rest of her body.

_Not a day over fifty._ She observed uncaringly, not even stopping to close the youngling's eyes.

Similar to the furnishings down below, the upstairs half of the small cottage had been outfitted with limited resources. Two bedrooms and the single bathroom to her right…no pictures on the walls. The entire place lay in darkness, the electricity shot into oblivion…a feature she herself had seen to earlier, preferring to use the moonlight and her nose for guidance. A quiet hum as she stepped light-footed upon the landing, her fingers still waving the tune whimsically through the air.

_Knocking on the windows…crying at the lock…_

_Are all the children safe in bed?_

She ended the rhyme abruptly, cocking her ear instead to listen, eyes narrowed…

_The frenzied struggles of a creature thrashing within…whimpering and whining, too hoarse to howl at the moon._

The sounds were coming from the door at the end of the hallway, but she turned momentarily…ducking her head instead to the child's make-shift bedroom. A few toys…clothes scattered in a small duffel bag. _Storybooks even_. She smiled coldly, dropping to her haunches to pick through the pile, curious if the parents had added any wolf-tales to their pup's library. Finding a dead hamster underneath, she chucked it aside smoothly and stood up.

_Alas…no red riding hood._

She resumed her path, leaving the room again as she followed the stains that had led her to the child's room. Evidence of the something which had been dragged kicking and screaming from the dining room, through the kitchen, up the stairs, into the bedroom…and out again, leaving a trail of black blood in its wake. Naturally, the stains led to the room at the end of the hallway…a fairly obvious trail…but, much like a game, she preferred to follow it precisely.

Unhurriedly, she moved closer to the door and placed her palm upon the wood, feeling through to the veins of one inside.

_A lycan male…secondary alpha…someone she had known once._

As was the way of the seekers, her fingers found purchase through the door, soaring into his blood, her mind sailing upon his memories as she swiftly relived the length of his life in seconds…a journey bound only by the strength of her prey. _But this one_…_cannot bar himself from his mistress_…teeth glinting in the moonlit darkness. Scents…loves…anger…

…_life_. Her head jerked back violently, the eyes turning white as she plunged burning into the past, her mind swept forth upon the smoking reels of history.

His name was…

_Bran._

_Born of Cáel __and Sinéad in the fourteenth century. Seasoned warrior in his prime. Hunter. A darting mistress. Fiona. A widower now…centuries pass. Smells of barley and rosewater. Makes shadows in the light when no one watches. The lightening locks of a youngling. He frightens her. Many years pass. She finds him and he laughs. He loves her name. Magdalene._

Inhaling in a daze, she cut herself abruptly from his memories as the smell of plague invaded her senses. Early in the second stage and dining upon festering mind and limbs.

_The sound of claws scrabbling across the ground, trying to gain purchase. A changed creature…she could quiet its agony. Silence its cries and let it drop softly into sleep by soothing its blood. An extra minute of time spent breathing a child into sweet relief._

But that had never been her way.

She opened the door and stepped forward, the struggling creature within wrenching its decaying body from the ground. Eyes rolling and jaws slavering, it screamed, hungry for blood, and hurled itself at the woman standing in the doorway.

Her right hand shot out, snatching it mid-air as her claws gripped its throat and she stared coldly into its eyes. This youngling...locked away.

She moved her gun beneath its chest and fired.

The pup yelped in a high-pitched whimper of pain, surprise and confusion, a sound that made her cringe…_old enough to attempt murder, but young enough to misunderstand pain._ Unused to children, she still held a strange kind of fascination for "little lycans"…much the way she would view a dog…or a strange breed of elk. She continued to watch it struggle in her claws, noting the length of the teeth before callously dropping it to the floor in a grubby heap.

Removing the tranquilizer dart, the moonlit breeze finally turned to the dull-faced man in the corner, his face skeletal...the bottom half of his body wrapped in a filthy, moth-eaten blanket. He was shivering, covered in blood…a gun clutched in his right hand.

She nodded to him. "Bran."

"Urith." He nodded back in the direction of her voice, his eyes hollow, but still clinging precariously to an indistinct image of sanity. Already a day or two into the disease, the dark locks of his hair were surprisingly clean, only the beard having been tangled into a dark forest spattered with blood…no lice. She could smell the sores on him though, and his feet, poking miserably from underneath a blanket, were discoloured.

Urith, the moonlit breeze, settled on her haunches again, waiting for him to speak as she counted the bullets laid neatly on the ground beside him.

_Liquid silver nitrate. No doubt from her own stores. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and it was no longer strange for lycans to carry liquid silver in their chambers nor for vampires to cling desperately to ultraviolet rounds. The ammunitions market had soared…_

…and, of course, she had profited.

_Hand to hand combat was a thing of the past now with a disease that spread through bites and blood. As the saying went, if a creature could spit in your eye, you were standing too close to it. Best to simply shoot it in the back and run. Elders had to invest in twice the rounds, making sure their troops were stocked enough to kill their own kind if an outbreak occurred…hardly a blink in the eye considering mortals had been doing it for years._

She darted her fingers into her coat, flipping open the time-piece…yawned a little impatiently. Typically she could hold a silence for years…but the Cleaners would be here in ten minutes.

Dropping the time-piece from whence it came, Urith shrugged, breaking the silence as she nonchalantly ripped a piece of beef-jerky from her coat and began to chew it.

"You'll be wasting a bullet."

The words were spoken matter-of-factly, her voice coming out cold and aloof. The type of creature that, if judged by her voice, understood much and cared for very little… "Your eyes are gone and your nerves are shot…see how your hand shakes? Perhaps if you aim at the wall…you may get lucky and hit your own head."

Her white teeth widened appreciatively at the black humour.

Except for his fingers scratching listlessly against the floor, the tattered source of her smiles remained silent, his body occasionally racked by shivers… blank face occasionally dripping sordid blood down his cheeks…a delicate feast of trails running through his beard before it all came together into the mess that had once served as his torso.

She continued to chew casually, noting how he moved. Judging by the claw-marks, his injuries were recent and self-inflicted…the eyes had been clawed out and most of the flesh on his chest, raked like a garden patch, the skin decomposing into a perfect breeding ground for bacteria. He had started scratching no doubt…a bit early considering his mate had been dead less than a day. The onset of stage two, but still early…

Suddenly a horrible sound…gurgling and shaking…the rotting lycan had begun to chuckle, fresh blood streaming as it broke upon the hurried words he strained to get out, body still racked by shivers. "I w-was always a rusty shot…you t-told me to practice on a dead horse…and I laughed and s-said I knew better than to…than t-to shoot your sorry hide…"

His laughter was tortured, gasping and wretched…but Urith smiled to herself, pleased that he remembered their first meeting.

_Five centuries ago. Fool boy that he was, he hadn't been phased by cruel words nor the wounds she inflicted upon his shivering form…where others might have screamed in the face of death, he had laughed cheerfully before poking fun at her._

_Always laughing, this one._

Suddenly, his empty eyes widened. Mouth gasping in horror…scrounging for words, his lips starting to tremble as he brought his hands up to his face. "I…s-should have…"

"It insults her memory to think you could have stopped what you did, youngling." Her seemingly indifferent tone brooked no argument.

"No…I…" he lowered the gun for a moment, beginning to scratch at his throat with the other hand. "I am…t-tired, Urith..." He let out a shuddering whimper suddenly, squinting red tears that fell between his finger, and wiped his cheeks with a palm. "Just w-waiting for you to take the boy..." Bran raised the gun again, this time pointing it directly at his right temple. "He's been s-shadowed, but…his name is Cáel...named for his grandfather."

"A fine choice…" She spoke politely, already growing bored of this exchange…but then she had never been one for chatter. At least with others. Heaving a monotonous sigh, she made the effort to convince him one more time. Hardly worth mentioning by the standards of others, but from Urith, it spoke volumes. "…but I am not the mothering kind, Bran…no doubt, if he wakes, he'd prefer his father."

He shook his head, smiling wistfully once more. "B-bah, woman…he's only six…barely a boy. He'll p-probably find your threats amusing and worship the ground you walk upon. Put him in foster care then…just d-don't let him remember." His arm was starting to shake, but he forced it still, his hollow eyes longing to see more than the darkness…

…but her presence was enough…that wintry voice.

He whispered softly…knowing she would take the words to heart. "I'm glad it was you that came, Urith. Always said I would die with your voice laughing in my head."

She let out an extraordinarily loud yawn. "Whatever you say, youngling. Just don't spatter on my coat this time." Leaving him chuckling on the floor, Urith hoisted the child by its ruff and smoothly stalked from the room.

A moment later, she heard the gunshot.

Stepping once more into the room, she confirmed the kill…her hand moving to the cell-phone strapped to her right leg. Flipping it open, she dialed a number swiftly and waited on the line. Someone picked up.

"Two bodies, both infected. Make room for a six-year-pup, Aeduin. Stage two…not too heavy." Without another word, she shut the cell, dropping it to the floor for the cleaning crew to find when they came to huff and puff and burn the house down.

_Speaking of which…she had a visitor coming to tea on the morrow._

Still waltzing to her own tune, the moonlit breeze danced elegantly down the staircase one more time, leaped across the banister (accidentally knocking the child's head on the wall in the process) and drifted lazily out the door.

_Changing with the moonlight, she tore across the hills, a pack and a child clutched in her claws…_

…_fearful of nothing._


	8. Chapter 4: An Unscheduled Visit

_Once again, as a notification:  
__  
__Chapter 2: The Blue Eyed Demon - shortened (and altered near beginning.)_

_(Note: I've also removed some chapters as you may have noticed...so right now, we're operating the day after Urith's moonlit journey and Reed's run-in with Nigel, the blue-eyed demon.) Please read and review!_

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**Chapter 4: An Unscheduled Visit**

_The next day, just outside Visegrád…_

Reed pulled up to a hoard of bushes, parking her moped as best she could in the glaring light. _Bleeding eyes_, she muttered, hand unconsciously moving to shade them as she locked the rental to a shaft hidden between the shrubs. It had been stupid, setting out so late this morning, but she'd slept through the alarm clock again…

…_and such horrendous dreams._ Reed closed her eyes for a moment, scrubbing her face with both palms to banish the fatigue. As usual, she'd spent the nighttime hours tossing on her bed until finally she gave up to sleep two hours before she was supposed to wake.

_Tawny eyes staring at the ceiling. A man clawing his eyes out. The darkness of wolves howling below…and the voice laughing at death and telling me to rise. Rise up, Victoria…_

…_but I am Reed! _She thought firmly, lips tightening. _Victoria is gone and that's all there is to it. Now shoo!_ The historian adjusted her frames before opening her eyes again, scowling at her reflection on the moped…just _daring_ the voice to try and speak to her when she felt this grumpy and sore. Not to mention, it was noon! The worst hour of the day…

As of two years ago, she'd had to make a point of wearing sunglasses during all daytime hours. Always traveling in shade…always darting between shadows, but it never seemed to ease the light flaming upon her pupils when the sun was at its highest.

_And now to business._

She grabbed her helmet and snuck round the side of the bushes, making her way through the sparse woodland to the twenty-foot high fence surrounding the Farkas Hospice. True…the place appeared deserted and no one came within a mile of the "abandoned complex" if they could help it, but as a monthly visitor…Reed knew better. _Never judge a book by its ripped-off cover_, she muttered, creeping ineptly through the wire fencing (Exhibit D: wire-cutters) to survey the inside. _The Farkas Hospice_, she thought with a smirk. _And, oh…was it pretty._

_A complex of thirty or so dull metallic buildings, the discoloured Farkas Hospice could hardly be described as "welcoming", "friendly" or even, how shall we put it, "hygienic." _

_Every structure was surrounded by twenty or so feet of sunlight thanks to a ridiculous lack of shading in the area, while the grimy walls and broken grating created a furnace of burning hot air that seeped through the skin, baking the visitor's soles (in more ways than one) on the concrete flat of the compound. At nighttime, the same grating became a recipe for destruction for anyone without night-goggles…threatening to scrape off significant portions of flesh if trespassers weren't so kind as to fall completely inside the half-hidden gaping chasms that promised death…death…and more death. _

…_and granted not every medical facility could boast of white walls, antiseptic or airy glass windows, but at the very least, most didn't have a monthly bet on "how much rust can building #27 gather before the roof collapses?" (Secondary to last year's stake on "which visitor/patient/trespasser will accidentally die from lead poisoning and/or run into a nail first?")_

_But wait, Urith's welcoming mat doesn't stop there…no no…_Reed smirked, her fingers starting to twitch as she wandered about the complex, searching for the entrance…_she's even decorated the place. Autumn colours to match that warm personality…_

_Taking a leaf from dear old M. Stewart, there was a lovely arrangement of barbed wire and broken glass in complementary reds, greens, and oranges along the rooftops…no doubt meant to lead the eye while providing a visually attractive accent. At the same time, much like that perfect oil-painting or antique vase, the extraordinarily rude "Trespassers will be prosecuted" sign nailed to every wall served as a final touch, giving the area a slight ambiance while creating a warm afterglow which could be summed up in a single word. _(_It used to be "prosecuted," but that had been crossed out and replaced with "shot" about four months ago. Dripping red spray-paint no less._)

Abruptly the extent of her skin started to shiver uncontrollably and a bout of severe paranoia began to creep waywardly through her senses…_What on earth?_ Reed thought, her forehead dropping into an anxious frown as her steps ground to a shuddering halt. Giving in to her instincts, the historian backed up against the side of a wall and stopped breathing for a moment, listening instead to the empty silence. All was quiet, but she knew..._Someone is coming…_

Urith had assured her she'd be the only visitor this morning and in truth, she hadn't seen another soul since she'd been visiting the hospice over the past two years…but there was no denying it. Reed wasn't the only visitor walking the hospice grounds…

_How could she…h-how could that…_

_That insensitive she-devil! Urith knows what I requested and this is…_

…_this is most…_

She began to splutter, scrounging for a word, unsure how she could have company _here_ of all places…and abruptly, her hands scrunched into fists and she stomped her foot quietly (if such a thing can be done.) _This is most…improper!_ concluded the scowling historian as she tried to ignore the quivers that racked her body…the fear that made it _completely_ impossible to affect normal behaviour in the presence of others.

…and within seconds, she heard them…

Steps coming in the distance.

_Just perfect…and no broom closet this time._ As disgusting as the compound was, there really wasn't an adequate hiding place short of pasting oneself to the walls. Even then, the sun managed to shine itself on everything and everyone…searching out intruders like a prison ground. Nothing for it then…she'd just have to wait until whomever it was had passed. And from the sounds of it, they were approaching from the north side…nowhere near her path, so in theory, there was no need to worry except…

…the footsteps stopped.

She turned her head nervously, still trying not to breathe. The vagrant must be at the fifth entrance already…or perhaps even the fourth…but at the very least, they had stopped moving which suggested they were no closer than…

"_Why are you here?_"

Reed squeaked, jumping back from the dirt-encrusted wall, only to be caught forcefully by her right arm and dragged back from the grate she was about to drop into. The deep, reverberating voice (which had just hissed in her right ear) slammed her firmly back against the wall…checked her ability to stand for a split-second and then continued to hold tightly to her upper limb. He leaned in towards her and hissed again… "_Answer the question, youngling…"_

_Oh God…I'm going to die. _She shook her head at him, incapable of speaking…already reduced to stutters in the face of _normal_ people and now completely mute after meeting this ruffian. He was extraordinarily tall…dark…and very…very well-built._ In fact, his arms must be really quite lovely under that jacket, but please…not ready to die…_

Without warning, a tiny hole slid open in the wall behind them and a dark growling voice hissed from within. "Raze, you half-brained lout, she's a _woman_, not a youngling…where's your nose? And _you_…woman! You are three hours late and contrary to popular opinion, I am not _paid_ by the hour, so _if you don't mind_…" the hole in the wall rested for a quiet moment before screaming the last two words in a tide that deafened both their ears. "_Pass_…_now!_"

Reed flinched, sliding to the floor, having been released somewhere between the words "half-brained" and "lout" (neither one of which appeared to sit well with the ruffian, who had started yelling obscenities through the hole …but as long as his attention was directed elsewhere, it was all fine by her.) After a nervous gulp of air or two, her fingers managed to climb weakly through her satchel where, flipping through a favourite tome on silver hallmarks and medieval times, she found her ID card wedged between the pages. Still shivering, the disheveled historian got herself delicately on her knees and held the card gingerly up to the gateman's hole in the wall…trying not to look at either "Raze" nor the hole (they were both yelling now…something about sleeping with his mother's pelt or some such nonsense.)

Abruptly, a lever could be heard shifting squeakily behind them and an unexpected portion along the wall, three meters to the right of the gateman, swerved open into a dark passageway. _Oh thank God_, she thought, shifting her satchel into a more comfortable position and adjusting her sunglasses…after a second, the blood stopped rushing to her forehead and she realized she'd have to move if she wanted to vacate the ruffian's presence. Grabbing her helmet from the ground, Reed dragged herself cautiously to her feet, keeping a suspicious eye on Raze as she took her ID card back from the gateman's sun-starved hand (he was waving it very unenthusiastically outside the hole.)

"Err…t-thank you." She murmured at the gateman with a tense swallow, still eyeing the ruffian distrustfully as she logically deduced her next course of action…_On the one hand, it appears as if this fiend has no intention of following me…or even killing me for that matter…and in fact, good manners suggest I, in truth, ought to introduce myself and perhaps thank him for stopping my fall earlier…_

…_but on the other hand…_

Reed peeked restlessly at the dark passageway…

_Less talk, more action. _She nodded firmly to herself, forfeiting etiquette for those nerve-racked instincts that made her renounce conversation as of two years ago. (Or in the words of that dearly departed philosophy instructor who once gave a last lecture on the art of drinking whisky while sipping drunkenly on a glass of port…_"Less talk and more action, you children of pestilence! Can't you see I'm trying to teach you how to…Margaret, you idiot…put down that glass. No…no the other way…that's right…now drink! Drink you fools!") _And with that wisdom in mind, the unnerved historian darted quickly along the walls and vanished down the passageway at a dead run.

Raze, for his part, glared once more at the gateman's hole in the wall and slammed his palm against the metal. "Tell Aeduin I am coming, old one…and I will _see_ Lucian this time, or upon my word, I will shred this place to _dust_." Without another word, the untried leader of the lycan hoard strode purposely through the dark gateway after Reed.

Seconds later, it closed with a thump, the metal siding appearing seamless once more as the gateman paused, listening quietly with his ear cocked…

…and slowly under his breath, the old lycan began to count.

_Unus…duo…tres…_

On the last tally, an abrupt shriek could be heard resounding from behind the solid metal walls, followed by a very deep and extraordinarily loud bellow of "_Quiet, woman!_"

From behind the hole in the wall, Helias, the First Gateman to the Underworld, smirked at the sudden silence.

_Younglings, _he thought, shifting off his perch to go inform the Master and Mistress that there would be _two_ visitors today...not one.


	9. Chapter 5: The Master and Mistress

**Chapter 5: The Master and Mistress of Valhalla**

A yellow orb watched silently from the dark control-room, observing with undisguised interest as sun-panels lit, one by one, along the seventh path reflected in the screen. The image flickered for a moment…clearly severing the dark-haired mortal on her ungainly way down the tunnel, and a lightning hand shot out, cuffing the monitor lightly across the head and bringing it sharply back into focus. A moment later, a dark lycan could be seen trailing the mortal's steps down the pathway, and unconsciously, the yellow orb creased as its owner sneered disdainfully at the screen.

Two feet behind the sneering creature, Jonas and Matthew, the two lieutenants recently transferred to the control-room, frowned carefully at the monitor and were disturbed to see a new dent along the siding. One of them sighed irritably, grabbed a pen and placed another notch on a tally card, realizing they'd sooner or later have to replace the general's monitor _yet_ _again_ without him noticing.

In fact, that was _all_ they did these days. _Watch Aeduin, replace the monitor, watch Aeduin, replace the monitor._ He stifled a yawn. Two months ago, their mistress had assigned them to "guarding" the back of Aeduin wherever he went.

_Guarding indeed…_

Whenever the aforementioned "he" went anywhere, it was too fast for either of the lieutenants to keep up…and whenever he stayed put, their charge essentially stapled himself to a chair and refrained from moving a single inch. In fact, it had become quite apparent that not only did Aeduin not _need_ them to guard his back, he took great joy in boring them to death by watching the _same_ surveillance screen for eighteen hours at a time.

_A hard mission… _thought Lieutenant Jonas with a vague smile, still eyeing the chair with some annoyance. Finally, he gave in to the yawn, keeping a hand over his mouth to mask the sound, before turning his head for the hundredth time to scrutinize their surroundings…

_A dark control-room…packed with thick electrical wiring, sleek black monitors (covered occasionally with greasy finger-prints) and the disturbingly quiet hum of power and surveillance. Three dozen mortals staring fervently at their screens…all thirty-six of them trained in the art of war. Trained to think…fight…serve…and survive in darkness._

…_the Rope Runners._

Prior to the death of Corvinus, it had been the _Cleaners_ that were the primary shadows of the mortal Underworld. And even now, trained in espionage and military warfare, of course, they still existed…followers of Urith who stalked the upper reaches, removing evidence diligently through the night while fighting for their mistress when fate demanded it…

…_but with a new era comes change…_

_And regardless of how efficient and powerful they once were, the Cleaners were now the secondary shadows of the world order…_

Glorified valkyries of the one-eyed Aeduin and his underground fortress, the Rope Runners were an elite rank of soldier weaned off the ten mortal Cleaners sent by Corvinus three decades ago…sent with orders to serve Aeduin and Urith as they had served him. Over the years, these special force units were trained through a perilous existence of living and running in the darkness below ground, never safe…never resting…until finally, they had evolved into killing machines…mortal pawns that turned to the iron-clad rooks of a chessboard in the face of true danger. Young and old, it was these Rope Runners who had been given the primary task of hacking relentlessly through the world above and below Valhalla…searching out the plague, monitoring diseases, technology, and warfare while keeping tabs on the vampires, lycans, and demons that milled beyond the ramparts.

_…the way a ship had once housed the mortal Cleaners, now the base of espionage lay below ground with Aeduin and his Rope Runners…_

Of the ninety-two gates leading to the Tombs, they had managed to harness thirty…one for every year spent digging and building in the darkness, the equipment and manpower provided by Corvinus. By the work of Helias, the First Gateman, the pathways had been altered, twisting and knotting to mimic the labyrinth of tombs where the Master and Mistress had once lived…and as per the agreement, three years ago, Aeduin and Urith had sealed their paths from the darkness…sealed their entrances from the tombs and creatures that reigned below.

_Sealed the colossal den which now served as the home of Urith and Aeduin, the Two of Knots…_

…_Valhalla._

Lieutenant Jonas yawned tiredly once more and turned back to watching his charge, suddenly mindful of how close he and Matthew had come to dying four years ago when they had first ventured below ground with their burden.

…the shock of learning that not a single member of their regiment had survived that night four years ago…

_And perhaps the old man knew_…mused Jonas silently to himself, thanking the dead immortal in his thoughts…feeling grateful for the air in his lungs. And with a short stretch, the first lieutenant rested his bottom more comfortably into the chair and heaved the warm sigh of one who knew, deep down inside, he'd rather be watching a control-chair for the rest of his life than be dead on the bottom of a pier.

Subsequently noting the blissful sigh behind his back, Aeduin raised an eyebrow. _Sighing, are we? Resting our laurels, are we? _He sniffed, rolling his eye to himself. _Urith had a lot of nerve sending those two down here. Guarding my back, indeed…_

Still living in the bowels of the tombs, the tunnels crawling with the demons…their hidden force had been mere _months_ away from sealing the Valhalla and moving within its ramparts when these two primary-school girls had arrived, biting back their screams as Deirdre herded them to the den. He'd been settling down for the daylight nap and they'd nearly brought the tunnel down with the noise they made. Fortunately for them, that was the _last_ he'd seen of the sturdy Jonas or the screaming Matthew for three years until Urith had come slyly near two months ago with some nonsense about them needing "technical experience."

_Technical experience, my fur-covered backside…_

The two special force lieutenants who, in truth, had never left the tombs after Urith took an unconscionable liking to the nervous one, now spent their days watching _him_ watch the monitors…

…or "guarding" his back, to be more exact.

His lips drew into a smirk. _Bodyguards._

_How droll…_

Unseen beneath the locks of fair hair twining down his back, one of Aeduin's ears pricked slightly at a voice whispering through a personal intercom, the hoarse throat of Helias, the gateman, informing him of a spike in the mortal's blood. Apparently she was starting to smell like a _lycan_ again…only faintly, but the blood seal would have to be strengthened nonetheless.

_Third time this year…_ Aeduin thought irritably. This girl was proving far more difficult than either of them had anticipated, and most unfortunately, Urith might have to target Victoria's memories again. _Perhaps it's just the timing…full moon, but regardless, I might go in myself this time…do the child a favour instead of letting Urith rip her blood-memories to shreds._

_Speaking of which…_

Without a care, the lycan stretched an arm languidly into the air, his quiet and unnerving gaze still trained unblinking upon the screen as the rest of his limbs remained motionless. The arm hovered, fingers flickering as his hand reached as high as it could towards the ceiling…before it dropped onto the arm rest, having been adequately loosened.

Lieutenant Jones sighed to himself, and then…

_Beep._

…flicked a small switch to his right, causing a tiny warning sensor above their heads to change from pale blue to bright orange.

The room about him immediately froze, the Rope Runners suddenly wary, one woman holding a forgotten sandwich half-way to her mouth as several junior technicians (recently acquired and _very_ new in their training) became quite flustered and began to shift nervously by the water cooler. Across the room, a number of mortals had pulled out handguns, slapped on hard-hats and were perching on their chairs, staring at Aeduin's arm as if it had just pulled a gun on them before setting itself on fire. Not really caring what happened, one older employee had simply donned sunglasses and was still typing away as if nothing strange had happened…

…but save for the one man, the entire control room had stopped in its tracks and was now doing its best to prepare for either a large-scale invasion and/or instant death. A feat that was by no means easy considering the presence of emergency protocol #207, as noted in the Rope Runners' Manual, page 382:

"**Warning**: In the event of any _obvious_ movement on the part of General Aeduin, Aeduin Styx, the Second Knot, his Lordship, the One-Eyed Odin, etc. etc., while seated in the control room, please take necessary precautions against the following natural and/or premeditated disasters, not limited to: _Flooding, Fire, Power Outage, Electric shock, Poisonous Gas, Earthquake, Tunnel Collapse, Sewage Leak, Gate Malfunction, Lycan Attack, Vampire Attack, Mortal Attack, Demon Attack, Three-headed Dog Loose on Grounds and/or Temporary Blindness._ Be advised. Do not leave the premises. Do not call your loved ones. Do not question the general. Instead, raise both feet above the ground if possible, cover your head, sharpen your knives and remain calm. Try your best to examine the general's movements and act accordingly. Be advised that on occasion, the general merely needs to stretch his arm."

(Of course…the majority of the time, an orange warning light meant "cover your eyes, some idiot's about to turn the light on"…but only a year ago, the general had calmly risen both feet onto his chair before dropping his head lazily upon the armrest. Ten seconds later, the wall caved in and a flood of sewage almost drowned half the staff. Ever since then, the entire group of them had been…jumpy…at best whenever Aeduin decided to move _slowly_ enough for the rest of the mortal world to witness.)

Lieutenant Jonas calmly did his best to examine the situation (he'd recently read the Rope Runners' manual himself last Tuesday.) Now on the one hand, Aeduin had only raised his _arm_ which suggested perhaps the ceiling might collapse…or poisonous gas would come sailing through the vents…or just a fuel leak… But on the other hand, he'd flickered his fingers…so perhaps Deirdre had found her way out of the kennels again…or maybe vampires would come falling from the skies…or maybe even…

Abruptly the sun-panel above their heads flashed, catapulting the room into blazing light and _chaos_ as the now-blind, sun-deprived mortals began yelling obscenities while wailing in protest (paired with the insatiable joy at finding themselves still alive after such a close brush with death.) As could be expected (or at least Aeduin expected it,) the crisis lasted precisely three seconds before the control room once more dropped into tense silence with the realization that, unfortunately, there would be no bad-mouthing _anyone_ seeing how the culprit was neither "Sergio" nor "that idiot" but instead…

_Speak of the devil…_

Aeduin smirked, rotating his chair to face the fair-haired lycan stalking purposefully into the illuminated room. The "stupid cow" hardly _ever_ came to the dark control-room, preferring to use their private intercom instead...

"My dear…_dear_ Urith…_how_ can I be of assistance?" Aeduin grinned mockingly, white teeth flashing. "I presume your arm is well?"

Urith ignored him, flipping open one of the consoles and punching in some numbers before dropping into a chair, turning her head on its side to view her brother across the room. Save for the fact that Aeduin missed an eye (and happened to be male), the two of them were identical…both fair-skinned and bearers of a thick mane of pale ivory hanging to their waists. The three eyes shared between them…yellow orbs covered in ice. Cold, heartless and forbidding in both appearance and temperament.

For several minutes, the siblings remained silent…staring evenly at one another, Aeduin's teeth remaining stretched in that horrific and haunting smile, both charming and cruel…the youthful face, faintly scarred and yet beautiful to behold. The mortals, unused to seeing the Two of Knots together in the same room, were unsure if they were about to kill each other or just massacre the lot of them in a maniacal frenzy. (The man in sunglasses, having known the pair during the _whole_ of the three decades, still continued typing.)

Finally, without changing a single muscle of her expression, Urith closed one eye very…very slowly and abruptly began to laugh uproariously with her dark humour…a cruel wintry wind echoing across the room, freezing the ears of mortals, while simultaneously warming the heart of her brother whose face she now resembled. Immediately Aeduin's lips burst into a true grin and his voice, tender with love, but cruel to the ears of those sitting around, joined in her laughter…the rest of him rising easily from the control-chair. He stalked to the water cooler, pinched a cup from the top and bent to fill it (unconcerned by the three junior technicians who had plastered themselves to the walls trying to escape his attention.) In a single motion, the lycan turned, downing the water, and crumbled the paper vessel in his hand…

"I _assume_ this has to do with Victoria?"

"Yes…" Urith smiled coyly. "…and no."

"Then what?" he asked with some interest, chucking the cup in the garbage before starting a slow circle of the room, keeping his one eye trained upon his surroundings and the missing one turned towards his sister. The workforce began shifting uncomfortably as his gaze passed over their faces.

Urith's lips drew back, cold and aloof, allowing her open eye to watch him lazily from her perch as he circled. "Do you remember…" her voice began to lilt, the words drifting and weary as if linked to a tale that had been told a thousand times. "…four years ago when Alexander sent me my gift, Aeduin?"

The yellow orb of Aeduin frowned, still slow walking about his sister. "I remember," he said, the tone grim and pensive. "But _what_ is that to do with the youngling, Urith?"

Her teeth snapped, and Aeduin's eye twisted darkly to face her. In keeping, the yellow orbs of Urith darted beyond her brother's back out of habit, guardedly watching the room as he stood stock-still to eye his wary sister. Regardless of how loyal their followers were, a few decades could never shake the fierce siblings of that tendency to protect each other's backs. In absolute darkness, he might be _her_ eyes…but under the light, it was she who took her place watching Aeduin's damaged left flank.

Urith answered him coldly, observing all that stood beyond while keeping her voice towards Aeduin. "Your so-called 'youngling' appears to have brought one of…" unconsciously, her nose scrunched. "…_their_ cups with her…"

"How would you know that?" Aeduin snarled, breaking her words and causing several employees to jump. Urith, used to the occasional snarls of her warm-hearted twin, simply smiled coolly, allowing her gaze to trail hungrily towards the water-cooler and the startled juniors who were now biting their tongues, wishing they hadn't drawn attention to themselves by jumping. Slyly, the moonlit breeze began to eye each of them in turn, one by one, knowing exactly what was going through their minds until, with a lazy flip of her head, she yawned and said…

"Nigel."

Urith began to play a little tune on the arm-chair. "He called early this morning, and apparently your little kleptomaniac stole some of the silver yesterday and is bringing it _here_ for documentation."

"Your point?"

She sniffed. "_As I was about to say_…dear brother…what's especially interesting is, according to our dear confidant, Victoria thinks she found a _mark_."

At this, Aeduin shifted, a hand reflexively moving to rub his right shoulder. Unseen to the mortals standing about him and covered by the fur-lined suede he now wore, the brand sealed upon them both had begun to itch. His one eye bore into Urith's face…

"_Silver..._" he murmured, fingers unconsciously digging into the suede.

Urith nodded slowly, and their watchful eyes met once, the room around them forgotten.

"_Silver_." She answered with a lazy smile, her nails moving to her own right shoulder, an unconscious shiver of the skin where her fur had started to crawl…wishing to break free and bite the aversion she now felt. But, of course, Urith could hold her peace. After all...there was no need to cause a ruckus and accidentally eat someone. Her teeth glinted as she stood up, her body seemingly idle and loose while her mind darted, the highly acute senses prowling the room once more.

Aeduin's one eye stayed on her face…his teeth matching her own as she stalked coyly up to her brother and began to whisper in his ear. "_And I don't know about you, Aeduin, but I suddenly remembered I have a gift lying downstairs…"_

The yellow orbs of Urith drifted to the key around Aeduin's neck, and her fingers began to play delicately with the chain around her own.

"…_and I_…" She smiled at him, the words coming out as soft as winter's end. "…would _sorely_ like to _open it_."

Allowing his fingers to run across his neck and the first key to Lucian's tomb, Aeduin sniffed back at Urith with an ironic smile..."Doesn't everyone?" he murmured just as coyly before snapping at her fingers and pushing her aside.

Even _if_ Victoria was now strong enough to find marks on silver, the chances that she'd be able to pass through that river were next to _nothing_ with the scent of wolves coming off her. And then, even if she _did_ reach the other side, Lucian's bloodsoul would no doubt _kill_ the youngling for smelling too much like a vampire...

...but Urith never thought of these things...

_Or if she did, she was willing to make the sacrifice._

The tall lycan walked back to the surveillance monitors, grinning sardonically at the two lieutenants before directing Urith's attention to the on-screen elevator where Victoria and Raze now stood, on their way down to the first floor of Valhalla. "I hate to be a bore, dearest, but I believe you're out of luck. As we speak, Raze is on his way down here, and from what I gather, he has a similar agenda. Of course, it won't work, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait another _day_ before he's done mourning at that tomb. Besides…" he dropped on his control-chair once more. "…Victoria's turning lycan again. So I suggest we put our efforts elsewhere for the time being or she'll be growing fur, not feeling up silver. Turn the light off when you go, will you?"

_Dead silence._

...and then.

"_Of course_…" Urith murmured coldly at her brother, heading casually for the door where she flicked off the one sun-panel, plunging the room into darkness. The moonlit breeze continued to stand there, her body draped against the doorway as she stared lazily at the back of Aeduin's chair. "By the way, Aeduin, it was a long night and I'm a little bit _tired_…might take a nap or something. Give my regards to the youngling and Raze."

He could sense her anger building beneath the calm exterior._ Urith wasn't tired…she was just livid that her earlier blood seal on Victoria hadn't managed to seal the girl from the aftermath of Ambrose's madness._

He closed his eye…

_…she might also be a tad cross over how he'd forgotten to aid her last night in putting that rotting pup down to sleep…but by the time, he'd woken up from his nap, she'd already raked her claws across the walls of his bed-chamber…_

"Aeduin?" she murmured quietly, now eyeing her nails where talons had started to grow.

"Yes, dearest?" he said with a sigh, knowing what was to come.

"Well, I _hate_ to be a bore," her teeth drew into a mocking smile as she mimicked his speech patterns, the words frosty and hissing with sarcasm.

"...but in all this _darkness_, I can't _seem_ to find the light-switch...turn it off yourself, won't you?"

Her hand _slammed _across all six light-switches, reactivating not just the one sun-panel, but the entire lot of them. And with an elegant twist to her steps, the moonlit breeze stalked out of the room, ignoring the painful wails coming from the blind, sun-deprived mortals who were once more yelling obscenities at the heavens.

Aeduin laughed to himself, duly noting that her nails had managed to scratch off the controls, permanently keeping the sun-panels in their beaming state until one of his technicians could reassemble the wiring.

_Stupid cow_, he thought, grinning as he watched his guests in the monitor and prepared to meet them at the door.


	10. Chapter 6: A Brawl of Lycans

_Please do read and review! (And don't worry_..._this is still "Lucian's Respite" not "Raze's Respite"_..._Lucian is a-coming_..._he just needs his beauty sleep first_.)

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Chapter 6: A Brawl of Lycans**

The elevator swayed slightly, the turning of greasy wheels in the distance punctuated by the sound of Raze tapping his fingers impatiently against the siding. Exceedingly irritated, he frowned, keeping his other arm steady as he shifted his stance, still balancing the wolf-smelling "_woman"_ whose body (and satchel) now lay slumped across his shoulders. He glared heatedly at the numbers tracking their descent, willing them to go faster just so he could get out of this damned elevator…

_Get away from her smell..._

Ten more floors left to go.

Earlier during his spat with that damned gateman Helias, the dark warrior still hadn't quite _believed_ the elderly lycan's words. Instead, seething to himself, he had stalked down the tunnel still _intent_ on finishing his interrogation with this youngling who _dared _cross his orders. Tracking her path within seconds, he had caught up, _gripped_ her potentially bruised arm, and turned her _fiercely_ about so he could demonstrate his extraordinarily powerful gift for roaring…

…only to have her open that _mouth_ of hers in one of the most ear-piercing screams he'd ever heard (even by lycan standards.) A split-second glance between her lips while she relieved herself of sanity…and it was settled.

Human. A perfect set of pearly white teeth that couldn't bite through bone if they tried.

_But then later…_

…_standing_ in the elevator with such a _palpable_ scent of alpha coming off her skin. Bone, tooth and pelt, he'd nearly been forced to gratify his first instincts, kiss with tongues, fly her off to Paris, and woo her as covertly as possible with blood-wine, satin, and the rarest steak of meat he could find. (Fortunately, having been taught the art of self-control _(and wooing)_ by Lucian himself, Raze had managed to transfer this need to _seduce_ alpha-females into rage, power, and a heated glare.)

_In fact…_

_Perhaps he shouldn't have glared so strongly when asking her name…_

…but he'd been so confused…

_Perhaps even blinded by her fragrance …and yet…_

Even _after_ the girl had _fainted_, he'd still had to _double-check_ her incisors (noting the attractive slant of her jaw as it lay open) just to be sure she was _human_. Inspect her eyes (a violent shade of blue) for any sign of recent bites or the ringed iris of a changing lycan. _Nothing…not a single visible sign that this woman was anything but what she seemed. A mortal. _But the _scent_…there was _no_ mistaking it.

He scowled, knowing that what lay on his shoulders could only be described as a scientific _anomaly_. A biological glitch. _An_ _experiment_, so to speak. Something akin…but far stranger than the mortal Corvin whose trail he followed four years ago. This nervous woman's inner chemistry was _impossible_…and yet here she was…

_Weak-hearted…_

_Mortal…_

…and smelling of the _strongest_ alpha female he'd ever scented in a thousand years.

Raze casually took another whiff…now able to distinguish clearly the subtle nuances that represented the woman's mortal side…his lycan sense not entirely _offended_ by what he found there. Her entire body, pressed against his shoulders, smelling of _spice_._ Cinnamon perhaps_. Weighing less than a feather compared to most of the creatures he'd carried in his day. _Dark hair…emitting a faint aroma of…_

(And not entirely for the sake of investigation, he again sniffed the long waves draped sinuously across his jacket, his nose trying to make sense of it all…)

…_Honeysuckle._

His glare became positively beastly. _A slight strain of jealousy running along his shoulder-blades._

Indeed, the knowledge that Urith and Aeduin went behind his back in most matters had always served as a harsh point of resentment from the untried lycan leader. Bred on the biting sarcasm of Lucian's force, Raze preferred blunt honesty...truth. Solid maneuvers. In the past, the look in Lucian's eye as he mulled over complicated strategies, while Raze took care of the grunt work.

But _this_…

If not biological testing, it was obvious the Two of Knots were up to _something_. Something devious and dangerous to the hoard. Something that vaguely reminded him of a time four years past when a mortal had been Lucian's top priority. An endeavor that had ended badly.

Again, Raze frowned, still tapping impatiently along the elevator wall as they passed the third floor. As usual, he knew Aeduin would meet him in the Great Hall, his wiry frame sprawled on that damned chair of judgment just so he could look _down_ on the new lycan master and _sneer_...

_Belittling_ his age..._belittling_ his power...

...and with an abrupt _snarl_, Raze gritted his bitter teeth, passing a solid ultimatum and deciding _firmly_ upon his next course of action.

_Whatever they are up to, I will have answers tonight!_

_I will SEE Lucian, the true lycan master, tonight._

_I will question Aeduin, the Second Knot, TONIGHT…_

_And I will…_he would_…smell…_

…_alpha…_

_Mmm…_

_She smells good_…

_Really good…_ he sighed, shaking his head firmly, trying to rid himself of the scent. No doubt, it might have worked better if he simply let her drop on the floor..._but...well no hurries_...

They were just passing the second floor now and soon, he'd be able to _get_ out of this elevator, _deposit_ this "woman" on the marble outside…and _storm_ through Aeduin's Great Hall demanding answers...

_But oohhh, so fresh…_

_So sensual…_

_So ALPHA…_

The dark warrior smirked suddenly and came up with a second ultimatum, noting he still had a _little_ time before he must walk down that entrance hall, pass through the front door and meet the Second Knot in his hall of judgment.

_And considering his own past…_

…between carrying blood-drenched lycan men pumped full of silver…and casually putting an arm out to catch the strongest scent of alpha female he'd smelled in his life…he'd probably choose the latter twelve times out of ten. Not to mention…_you only live life once_…and now completely dazed by the power of Reed's aura, Raze closed his eyes and inhaled _deeply_ with a smile…contenting himself with the scent of honeysuckle intermingled with alpha…_alpha_…ALPHA…

_Only to hear a faint, and very dry, cough beyond his left ear._

_Followed by a grim stifle of mirth…_

…_and then wonder of wonders, the obvious sound of someone desperately trying to hold back an extremely raucous outburst of frosty laughter._

(Naturally as is the case in these situations, this laughter is _not_ coming from the object of Raze's voracious affections, now so conveniently draped about his neck. After all. That wouldn't be funny…nor would it be even possible since Reed is very much _out_ at the moment.)

No, indeed. We must face facts.

The cough (and laughter) is coming from right _outside_ the elevator which, of course, has been open for a whole four seconds while the lycan "leader" takes a deep breath of fresh air while unconsciously murmuring "alpha, alpha, alpha" (thus neglecting to listen for the door, door, door.)

And naturally, judging by the _depth_ of Aeduin's amusement…

_For indeed, it **is** Aeduin who stands leaning against a twenty foot pillar before the elevator, snickering under his breath as he smirks disdainfully at Raze…_

…it would only be _too sad_ if the Second Knot hadn't gone that extra _mile _of meeting his guests at the main entrance hall rather than the Great Hall (consequently arriving just in time to witness Raze expressing these first three words of true…_lust_, we'll call it.)

_Though as might be guessed, it is folly to pretend this "ill-timed arrival" is based on coincidence seeing how anyone who is even slightly familiar with the Second Knot, Aeduin Styx, must have realized by now that…_

(a) Aeduin and his surveillance camera are in love…hence the Second Knot knows _exactly_ what is going on in all elevators at all times…

(b) the General spends the entirety of his time below ground and knows precisely what Reed smells like since this is _not_ her first visit…

(c) the Second Knot _himself_ is a lycan of alpha caliber…and harbours a certain unconscionable jealousy in regards to certain _alphas_ now in charge of the lycan hoard…

…_and, of course…_

(d) Aeduin can run very…_very_…fast. _So_ fast he can no doubt _time_ his imminent arrivals to coincide perfectly with certain statements regarding lust, love, and/or alphas that might bring a certain _touch_ of glacial amusement to his one eye.

Raze opened his eyes.

Aeduin swallowed his snickers…

…coughed again.

And then with a flourish of his arm, he inclined his head slightly, an obvious sneer playing upon his lips. "_Alpha _Raze…how very kind of you to drop in…"

Desperate to regain his dignity as quickly as possible, Raze growled at the lycan before stepping dauntingly from the elevator into the gargantuan entrance hall of Valhalla's first floor. His teeth bared, the regular tension between the two dominant wolves amplified by the presence of one such as the passed-out Miss Victoria Reed, they both stood glaring upon the stone, their body language suggesting a strong urge to rip each others throats out though current politics dictate they set aside wolven instincts and speak with words.

"_What is the meaning of this mortal?"_ demanded Raze in a voice of growling doom, his arm still disinclined to drop the pleasing scent of honeysuckle from his shoulders.

Aeduin, his single eye trained on Reed, answered calmly as if speaking to a pup of…oh…two years. "_She is no business of yours, youngling. Or has your taste in women dropped so abruptly to the race of transience?_"

Shadows played upon their faces as the two lycans stared at one another…flames from a hundred torches observing them silently from above and beyond, the darkness of the room mimicking their detachment as the fire showed their rage.

Abruptly Raze _snarled_, dropping Reed's body to the marble to shove Aeduin roughly against the stone pillar…

…only to be met by a brusque _rrooaAARR_ from the one-eyed lycan who now slammed his grip onto the lycan leader's throat, pushing the younger and much heavier Raze onto the ground where, snapping, he lay pinned for several seconds until the bloodseeker's much lighter frame made it impossible to keep his grasp. Raze, regaining his momentum, immediately flung the one-eyed knot through air and reeled onto his knees to begin _stripping_ himself of all garments while releasing an enormous _bellow_ that threatened to tear off his opponent's flesh if the Second Knot didn't back down. Facing him on the marble, Aeduin…who had landed perfectly on his two solid feet after being hurled twenty feet through the room, also began divesting himself of any clinging fabric that might get in the way of _murdering_ this useless pup of a lycan…his snarls echoing throughout the hall as it became apparent he was faster, if not stronger, than Raze...

…_and then…_

"_Yaaawn…"_

Urith, who naturally couldn't be bothered to get her rest when she wasn't tired in the slightest, stalked yawning into the hallway. Eying the two _alphas_ (who were almost completely naked now and still engrossed in transforming in the loudest, most domineering way possible,) she stepped into the center of their marble battlefield and raised her extremely toned arm into the air, as if to say "_Excuse me, I have something dreadfully important to say…_"

_As a short explanation of this…beside her natural sensuality, Urith, by her own right, was also a brand of alpha-female, and as such, did not need gunshots or much fanfare to receive a mild shade of focus from two lycans currently embroiled in a battle of testosterone. (Though it must be noted, her brother was far more interested in how best to throw her out of the way rather than admiring her scent or attractive figure…_)

Naturally, for several seconds, no one (perhaps not even the reader) had time for Urith's "_dreadfully important statement_" seeing how two alpha lycans on either side of an exciting battle were _still_ roaring their battle cries, _snarling_ their throats, and _pelting_ their colossal furs (Raze turning to a lovely shade of black upon final transformation as Aeduin exhibited for lycans, readers, and judges everywhere…a fairly unusual ivory coloured tint, which no doubt would receive an overall score of 9.5 next to Raze's slightly lower one of 9.0 based on the 0.5 penalty for having started the fight in the first place.)

But still standing in the center of their _extremely_ loud battle field, Urith continued waving her arm persistently…

…and _finally_, after having received _some_ attention and a slight _measure_ of silence from the two warriors punctuated by the occasional growl…

Urith simply yawned once more…

_Pointed_ at Reed…

…and left the room, being more concerned now with finding lunch.

Unfortunately, this simple and quite obvious mode of communication left both alphas (fully transformed now) not only mildly confused but also trying to reason within themselves what on earth had come over Urith. (Ironically, both alpha males were finally agreeing over something for the first time since they'd made their truce three years ago.)

_But this was quite serious…was she jealous?_

_Going mad? Asking for attention?_

_What could it all mean?_

For it was already _obvious_ they were fighting over Reed (or what Reed's scent represented)…

…so why on earth would Urith take the time to break their fully-transformed lycan roaring match just to point at the little shivering heap of a mortal woman who now sat curled in a corner, mewling to herself after having woken to the roars of two insanely large monsters trying to rip each other's throats out…

_Ah_.

_Perhaps the reader has caught on already…_

_Nonetheless, it still takes several more seconds for the lycans, cloaked in their rage, to reassess this image enough times to realize that the "woken" part might have a slight hint of consequence in regards to their current eight foot tall, fur-covered, tooth-sharpened forms…_

_But to their defense…_

Aeduin (the older and wiser of the two) does manage to swallow sheepishly…

…and Raze (the younger and much keener to impress of the two) even has the grace to turn a sickly shade of…well, black…on his fur-covered cheeks before gulping.

_Or at least he tries to gulp…_

But seeing how he is _still_ in his werewolf form, this _gulpish _attempt is merely translated as a blood-wrenching snapping of teeth, evoking yet _another_ tremor of shivers from the now screaming "Miss Victoria Reed" (who is no doubt considering how best to end her own misery, after having _fruitlessly_ pinched her arm enough times to bleed a way out of this living nightmare.)

_After all…_

_These creatures cannot exist…they do not exist. Her dreams…her logical sense of all that is certain in the world…that portion of mind limited to "not wolves", guns, and hunting…_

_The incessant voice of doom speaking in her head at odd hours…_

…_why it's as if she's going mad!_

And with a final ear-piercing shriek from her lungs, Miss Victoria Reed takes it upon herself to pass out (yet again) rather than continue screaming at two monsters who _still_ have not had the _grace_ to disappear.

_Though once more in their defense (the lycan alphas, that is)…_

_They themselves were a tad unsure as to etiquette regarding such a sensitive matter. After all, she did smell like an alpha female…but at the same time she was mortal, so of course, they didn't want to frighten her…but seeing how she was already half mad on the floor now, the only question was whether to lope from the room, knock the woman out, or just transform back into the two strapping young naked men they once were several moments ago._

In other words…_completely_ flabbergasted.

And if two fully-transformed alpha lycans could gulp, _would_ gulp, or had ever been _known_ to gulp at a particular time in history (_not including two warriors looking sheepishly at the floor after a lycan master shoots a hole in the ceiling_)…

…this was _definitely_ that time.


	11. Chapter 7: The Ill fated Capture of Reed

**Chapter 7: The Ill-Fated Capture of Reed**

_Voices murmuring in the distance. The sound of beeping. Someone's heart beeping weak and slow…the buzz of a computer monitor. Steps creaking above and below. Smells of coffee…tea…the whisper of cutlery…rustle and bustle of papers being crumpled. Not crumpled…shredded. Shredded papers…sounds like…office work…sounds like…photocopying…sounds like…_

Reed's eyes whipped open, both hands grasping for her non-existent satchel, while she instinctively curled her legs closer into a fetal position. Instantly, she squeaked, slapping both palms against her face in a vain attempt to shut out the extraordinarily bright light blinding her from above, her feet now kicking out against several blankets, sheets, and what felt like wires attached near her...

…not _near_ her…

…_on_ her.

_Trapped…claustrophobia…caught…_

…_monsters!_

She began grappling with the lines, blindly tugging and twisting with one arm, messily stripping off wires, one by one, until the beeping monitor registered her as "quite dead" and the IV attached to her arm relocated its drip mechanism to the goose-down of her pillow. One palm still clapped about her eyes as she freed herself (noting the paper-like material of her gown,) the historian flipped off the sheets and blankets, wrapped her fist around something woolen, and gingerly stretched a foot towards the floor, touching icy tiles with a toe as she grimaced slightly, still unable to see beyond her palm, but determined to finish her journey to the area _underneath_ the hospital bed.

As usual, an efficient sense of ostrich maneuvers served her well…and within seconds, all that could be seen was a shivering bundle of the "something-woolen" blanket shoved into a corner _beneath_ the bed where Reed had decided to bury herself until further notice. Still unable to quite contain her whimpers or the prickles on her skin, the historian feverishly began to grasp onto her sanity, replaying the horrific events of the day…hour…_week_?...before…

_The ruffian had…had…_

…_accosted her in the tunnel! And then…what happened?...she'd been…no…no, they'd been walking after she screamed. More like running, but then the elevator…they'd reached the elevator and that perverted fiend! He'd been…he'd been sniffing, and he…that…Raze…he'd asked her a question…and…_

…_she'd fainted._

_Of course._

A dream…it had all been a dream. It must have been. She'd been so frightened by that fall earlier, she must have…associated him with the monsters of her dreams. And Aeduin…how did Aeduin fit in? Perhaps, deep down inside, the…

…wound on Aeduin's face frightened her?

No…that was _stupid_. Urith and Aeduin were the only ones besides Nigel that _didn't_ frighten her into shudders, so why on _earth_ would she dream Aeduin into a monster? _Perhaps she was going mad. _

_Yes…yes of course. Madness. That's much better than monsters…_

Nodding to herself with a sigh of relief and still wrapped in her security blanket (fluffy, warm, and very comforting), Reed finally had the courage to unwrap her hand, squint her tender eyes and peer tentatively through the little gap she'd left in the wool wrapping for oxygen purposes.

Of course, no longer staring _directly_ at a sun-panel and screened by the bed she was hiding under, it was now a tad easier to inspect the surroundings (namely…the bottom three feet of the entire room as dictated by the height of the bed.) Bathed in light, the entire room was white, clinical, and extraordinarily hygienic looking. A bedside table to her right, a door immediately facing the bed, a wooden chair to her left and a little curtain running along one side of the mattress beyond the chair. She was totally alone. Completely abandoned to herself. Not a single soul in the entirety of the…

"You're not dead then?" A cold, wintry voice asked politely from the air above.

Her eyes snapped shut again. Recognizing the voice through muffled ears, her expression turned to one of tremendous irritation. It was becoming quite tiresome the way people were creeping up on her these days. Of course, she'd felt the skin prickle, but really, there were _limits_! Grimacing at the rudeness of it all, the historian raised her mouth to the wool gap and primly stated…

"_Go away!"_

"Oh come now, Victoria…" A head flipped over the side of the bed, an entire length of ivory-blonde hair falling to the ground as Aeduin's upside-down head came into view. He cocked his eyebrow. "…lots of people faint in elevators. Not your fault at all…"

"I'm _not_ Victoria…" she growled.

"Fine. _Reed_…" He rolled off the bed and landed easily on bare feet, depositing himself into a cross-legged seat where he squinted an eye at her. The fluidity and languid nature of his movements couldn't distract from the fact that Aeduin was incredibly frightful when he wanted answers. He swallowed and tried to look pleasant, if not downright endearing…

"_Anything_ on your mind?" he said innocently.

A growl escaped the wool. "_No_…" she muttered.

"You're q_uite_ sure?"

"You mean _other_ than losing my sanity?" she grated through wool.

"Hence the word…_anything_…but do feel free to enlighten me…" he murmured, still smiling casually through his teeth.

Almost before the smile had escaped the Second Knot's teeth, a high-pitched hiss came out from the woolen blanket, followed by a muffled growl, the entire eruption sounding as if the historian had developed an intemperate cold in the middle of boiling hot summer. She flipped off the blanket and stuck her head out ferociously…

"You know, Aeduin, for a second there I thought my answer was _no…_but now that you've asked _twice_, why, _of course_…how stupid of me! I realize by _no_, I actually meant…_piss off!_" she barked.

The dark-haired Reed twisted the wool back over her head and snapped into an embittered silence (tinged with the occasional shiver of frustration.) Although frightfully petrified by most people, Aeduin had crossed the line and regardless of how _tense_ she was feeling, the woolen blanket, formerly known as Miss Victoria Reed, had decided there would be _no_ _more_ _speaking_ this day.

Completely unruffled by the excessive _negativity_, the laid-back administrator merely took a whiff of fresh air…and nodded.

"_Alright_ then…I'm leaving the call button, though you _are_ technically registered as _dead_ according to your heartbeat. If you lose or break the call button and feel like talking, leaving your room, or eating, Urith will be around to check on you later…"

Still making an effort to appear pleasant, the Second Knot, sometimes known as the Farkas Hospice Administrator Aeduin Styx, slid the hospice call-remote across the floor, and waited patiently for a reply. Though Reed had had _far_ too much human contact for one day, he only had to wait several seconds before a pale, suspicious hand slipped out from beneath the blanket, grabbed the remote, and went back to its business of masquerading as air.

_Not bad considering the girl had undergone two blood-seals in the last eight hours since earlier this morning (one to reinstate the failed blood-seal installed by Urith several months ago, and the other to reseal a number of the girl's memories. As per usual, the nervous historian would assume the entire thing was a dream, Raze would be wiped from her thoughts, and she'd spend the rest of her weekend suffering from a severe bout of paranoia and skin prickles.)_

Satisfied with this acceptance, Aeduin nodded at the blanket, effortlessly rose to his feet and made for the door. However, just as he was about to leave, Reed managed to muffle out one more statement of bitter mistrust…

"Is Raze still in the building?"

"_What_?" he said curtly from the door, and then, relaxing his fists and murmuring as if it were the _last_ thing on his mind…

"Oh _Raaaze_…Yes…yes, I'm afraid he _is _still on the hospice grounds. But rest assured, my dear Reed," Facing the door, Aeduin's smile became feral. "…I have _banned_ him from the East Wing as long as you yourself are situated here. In fact…if Raze so much as lifts a _finger_ towards you again, I will ban him from the _entirety_ of this hospice for the _rest_ of his life, however_ short_ that may be."

Without another word, the long-haired administrator composed himself, tried to lighten the extraordinarily tense grit of teeth that Reed couldn't see from her blanket beneath the bed, and left the room, closing the door as silently as when he entered ten minutes ago.

Left to herself (finally), Reed swallowed, a tad upset at the slightly feral growl that had entered Aeduin's voice as he spoke the last sentence. She herself had been shocked by Raze speaking so gruffly in the elevator, but the way Aeduin spoke of the matter, it sounded like the well-toned leather-clad ruffian had tried to…

Immediately, she cut herself off, trying to counsel herself away from any rogue memories that might suggest she hadn't dreamed at all, and the event of two creatures battling upon a marble floor had been real. The historian curled tighter into her blankie.

_You are mad, Reed…that's all there is to it. Everything was a dream. It was all a dream. There was no sniffing. No creatures fighting. No screaming. It was all just…_

…_a dream._

…o…

_Twelve feet away. Outside the hospice door of Reed._

Aeduin stood with his back against the door, his arms wrapped around Reed's satchel. An intense frown had plastered itself over his features, and he was dramatically grinding his teeth in an effort to rethink the situation. His problems had just escalated. The first blood-seal had, indeed, reduced the alpha scent on Victoria's skin…

…but the _second_…well…it appeared the second hadn't even _mildly_ affected her memories.

The way he had worked it…the second blood-seal ought to have wiped _all_ trace of Raze from Victoria's blood, yet the pale historian was still _cowering_ under her bed, _whimpering_ about her madness, and asking whether certain creatures were still on the premises.

His forehead creased into what could be interpreted as regret…

Ever since Ambrose had been infected two years ago, they'd of course been forced to seal a number of Victoria's memories, including several with lycans, vampires, and the occasional rabid three-headed dog…but this was the first time a memory had blatantly stuck on the historian like fleas on a mid-winter pelt. A very bad sign considering what might happen if certain _other_ memories made their way to the surface of the cowering historian's conscience.

Flipping open the satchel (recently acquired in the last ten minutes) and dimming the corridor lights, Aeduin carefully moved the various objects around until finally, using the cloth as a buffer between his fingers and the silver, the Second Knot held the silver cup Reed had brought with her to the hospice. Staring deeply upon its designs, his eye began to glow faintly, the yellow pupil turning white as he followed lines and swirls, imploring the pathways to open before him as he searched for the key. The anvil…two dots…and the line. Searching…_searching_…

…nothing.

He sighed, allowing the cup to fall back into the satchel. The same problem that had plagued the Two of Knots for several centuries…_allergies_. Bloodseekers needed to touch their runescript, following the non-existent pathways without sight, walking their fingers through darkness and song. And this…

…the grandest mechanism ever to stop a lycan bloodseeker from reading a pattern…

_Silver_.

The Second Knot began loping to the West Wing, dropping Victoria's satchel and the silver cup in his office on the way, knowing he would need both later. Turning swiftly from the locked door, without thinking, he bumped into Urith on her way towards the youngling's hospice room. Much like two pups quarrelling over mother's milk, the siblings glared at one another for a moment…

…and then _abruptly_, rolling her eyes and smirking, Urith reached out, embracing her brother once around the neck to show that regardless of how useless that brawl was earlier, she forgave him for causing Reed mental harm. Slightly unnerved by her sudden _obvious_ show of affection after two years, and vaguely touched, Aeduin lost his tenseness and returned the embrace. He had always _hated_ fighting with his sister, and in two days, he had _already_ incensed her three times in a row. Though safe within the walls of Valhalla, he almost longed for the days when it was just the two of them stuck beneath the earth…

However it was not to be.

The sound of two Rope Runners approaching from the distance cut short their affections, and just as suddenly as they embraced, the Two of Knots let go, resuming their harsh exteriors and showing no sign that they actually _enjoyed_ being hugged once in a while. With a final mystifying wink at her brother, Urith dropped into her usual stance of lethargy and continued on her way, while Aeduin, frowning fiercely at the world, began sprinting once more through the corridors, his mind now concerned with his personal plan regarding the ill-fated Victoria Reed…

If he didn't know before, he _certainly_ knew now. Victoria was a mess…she could hardly look at sun-panels, and after this morning's fiasco, there was _no way_ she'd be in a state to enter the silver-infested veins of Lucian. A pity for Urith who still had her heart on using the girl…but no matter. In four day's time, after they _completed_ their purchase of the entire Kovacs silver collection and placed the entire lot in storage, he would simply request that they wait for the more _opportune_ time before sacrificing the youngling…

_Yes_, he figured to himself in passing. _The more opportune time…known as…_

…_never._

His lips drew into a fearsome smile. It was all fine and dandy to plan "murder for a good cause", but regardless of what Urith might say later about him getting _soft_, he wasn't about to _kill_ the youngling just so they could get a little calling time with Lucian. There had to be another way…there was _always_ another way. And until he found it, Urith wasn't coming within a _millimeter_ of the first key to Lucian's tomb, so conveniently draped around his neck like the woman draped around Raze's earlier that morning.

Arriving at a dark, ominous door after his swift sprint down the maze-like corridors leading to the West Wing, Aeduin punched in a key-code on the side of the door, smiled for the camera, and placed his palm against a small scanner on the left. Immediately, the door slid to the right, revealing a long line of steps winding down…down…_down_…through what appeared to be an underground tower of stone. At the very bottom, just out of sight unless one peered over the railing, a single torch could be seen wavering in the darkness.

The lycan entered the tower and began following the torch, allowing the door to slide shut behind him. After all that work on Reed's blood-seals, it was time to check on Raze. Time to answer a few questions…and _unfortunately_…time to allow that stupid pup his tri-annual glimpse of Lucian, the true master of lycans.

…o…

_The East Wing_

Still shivering beneath her bed, Reed's ears pricked a little as she heard the door open. Almost silently, two feet padded closer to the bed and languorously stretched out on the icy tiles to the right of the bed. Licking her lips, Reed felt her heart beating a little slower and turned her head furtively about, eventually glimpsing a visitor's teeth from the corner of her eye through the woolen blanket.

Meeting her gaze slyly, her teeth widening ever further, Urith smiled frostily from her resting place, the fingers of her left hand playing delicately with _two_ steel chains bound around her neck.

"Hello Reed…" she murmured.

Reed swallowed. Dr. Urith Styx's normally casual tone and unruffled smile had been replaced by ice and, with two words, had _covered_ Reed's skin in a shower of skin-prickles, fear, and an overwhelming stretch of nausea as she realized Urith wasn't here to check her pulse. Even as she opened her mouth to scream, Urith had already _pounced_ on Reed's blanket, wrenching both the historian's arms behind her back as she stomped on the little bump formerly known as "remote call-button", the crunch of metal suggesting that indeed, it too was now technically…_dead_. Immediately fixing both eyes on her prey beneath the bed, the First Knot began to whisper inhumanly in the terrified Reed's ear, her hand still clamped across the woman's mewling screams, the words coming out as dull iron,

"You know, I _like_ you, youngling…" she said. "_Truly_ I do. You are _swift_…your inherent skills of the rogue are _astonishing_…you _dance_ well…and yet…such fear. Such terror lodged in your veins. Just listen, _Reed_…your blood is ready to _burst_ and your heart…can you not feel it? _Pounding_. Fighting. Threatening to _strike_ your wounded soul to the ground if you do not break upon air. Is it coming _back_ to you? Our _nasty_ little secret? You weren't supposed to remember, but this time," she leaned closer, her whisper searing upon Reed's sanity as she sang the words slowly into her ear as if telling a fairytale.

"…_this_ time, I will _tell_ you the secret, youngling."

Urith's smiled into Reed's eyes, her yellow orbs turning an icy shade of blue as she began to _change_ before the girl, her words still lilting upon the song.

"The wolves are _real_. Aeduin is a _monster_…" she whispered, her voice dry, wintry and echoing. "_I_ am a monster…" she pressed her cheek against the girl's hair. "…and your brother? Your brother Ambrose is a monster _too, _little one. A _sick_ monster…but a brutal, nasty little creature, nonetheless. And _just_ for that," and as she spoke, Urith kissed the historian lightly across the temple as a mother bidding farewell to a child. "…I want you to _remember_ that if we fail in this journey and you suffer for it…on my honour, I will _end_ your life swiftly."

_And now_...

...humming over the speed with which she had caught her prey, Urith twisted Reed firmly into the warm blanket, tying knots and loops and bonds about her mouth, eyes, legs, and arms, so that within seconds, the dark-haired Reed resembled nothing short of a trussed up…"_chicken." _(But seeing how the current situation is horrid enough as it is, the word "_swan_" will be used out of compassion for one who is about to be murdered.)

Flipping the muffled bundle of "laundry" onto her back, the long-haired lycan smelling of sage left the room, taking a moment to smile viciously over _her_ plan regarding the dark-haired Reed…

_By the time Aeduin finished with Raze and realized his switched "key" weighed an ounce lighter than it had ten minutes ago (or better yet, came to terms with the fact that Urith never touched anyone without good reason these days,) the inner tomb would be open…_

…and dear…_sweet_…little Victoria Reed would be fed to the wolves.

Or wolf, that is.

_And the moonlit breeze smirked as she dropped blindly down a second passageway to the West Wing, her fingers dancing about the matching keys of Lucian's Tomb now hanging from her neck…_

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_A/N:_ _Please read and review! (Thanks for the favourites and review of the last chapter by the way...good to know a few people don't mind that it's taking me two centuries and an age to wake up Lucian. Anyway, please keep reading and ooooh...a review button...it's so pretty...it's like alpha...go on. Press it!)_

_Will Urith feed Miss Victoria Reed to Lucian? Will Aeduin stop her in time? Will Rushwriter **ever** wake Lucian?_

_Tune in next time on..._

...Lucian's Respite!

_Greek Chorus: Oooooooo._

_Norse Valkyries: Ahhhhh._


	12. Chapter 8: The Tomb of Lucian

_A/N: Please read and review...I just spilled half a mug of tea all over my keyboard, and now some of the buttons aren't working. A pity...by the way, I can't tell if this story is making sense or not to readers, so please, please send me word, if it's not..._

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Chapter 8: The Tomb of Lucian**

_Drip…drip…drip…_

Dragging the bundled form of Reed on the ground behind her and uncaring of the stones that might bruise the unconscious youngling, Urith walked steadily down the small tunnel leading towards the Hall of the Dead. Though in pitch-darkness and aware of the possibility of getting lost, she kept her pace calm, counting her steps and continually trailing one hand along the left wall, sniffing every few seconds for the tell-tale smell of mold.

"_Time is wasting…" _she thought, trying to effectively track her sibling's progress in her mind. Aeduin would have reached the bottom of the underground tower by now. He and Raze would only speak for several minutes before they entered the outer hallway. From there, the two alphas would _stroll_ past the undead bodies of nearly three hundred lycan men, women, and children caught in hibernation. The room would be freezing. Glaring at one another, they would stand tensely for several seconds making insolent small-talk before Aeduin took as _long_ as possible opening the Hall of the Dead. Once inside, they would need a single key…_Aeduin's _First Key…to get through a stone door hidden in the patterning of the walls. From there, they would arrive in a hidden chamber bordering upon a tomb where the lycan master could be seen sleeping through several holes carved into a stone wall. The final barrier, the stone wall, required another key…_Urith's _Second Key…before it would open, allowing guests, trespassers, and lycans everywhere to _enter_ the sacred tomb.

As of two years ago, however, not a _single_ soul, herself included, had set foot beyond this stone wall. (No doubt because Aeduin still feared his sister might _again_ do something…_unpleasant_…if she had access to both Lucian and another member of the Reed family at the same time.)

"_And rightly so…" _she sniffed.

Gripping her prey a little tighter, Urith smirked in the darkness as the scent of mold drifted into her nostrils for a fleeting moment…

…mold and…_oak_.

Abruptly stopping, Urith ran her fingers up and down the stone, searching for the three scratches marking the first stone on the wall. Finding what she sought, she breathed suddenly, her eyes turning to white in the darkness as she read the roving runescript, her voice low and humming the hidden keys.

_Akh, fuh, erus…_

…_the hawk, the hare, and the raven._

Still murmuring the pattern to herself, Urith dropped to her haunches and ran her fingers across the door's base where forty granite tiles had been embedded. The runes themselves had been scratched off, but tracing her way from the first tile, she counted forward to the fourth tile, pressing it once. Moving on to the twelfth, she again pressed the smooth surface once, keeping her left hand still wrapped around the bundle behind her.

_Akh, the hawk…and Fuh, the hare._

_Erus, _the character used for _raven_, came after the _hare_ according to the forty character system. She tapped the thirteenth tile twice, signifying the end of her pattern, and then, rising, blindly stretched her arm in front of her, finding a stone channel where she could insert her fingers. Gripping the channel, she pulled, smoothly dragging the stone wall towards her while pushing Reed's enveloped body back further with her foot so as not to crush anything. Noting the continual darkness, the tall lycan listened carefully for any sign that Aeduin and Raze were approaching…

…and was rewarded with silence. Only the dripping of water could be heard far in the distance, hinting at the underground lake that lay nearby.

Smiling to herself, Urith hoisted Reed onto her back, taking a split-second to check if the girl was still breathing (she figured it was always _wise_ to do this when kidnapping humans,) and made her way past the stone door, pulling it shut behind her as she entered the Hall of the Dead. Pitch-black as usual. Although sun-panels had been installed in the upper floors of Valhalla, all pathways, tunnels and staircases below the main level were kept in continual darkness, and not only because the Two of Knots found it comforting after all their years underground…

_For any who studied blood-seeking knew the first law of runescript…_

_Only in darkness can one read the runescript. Once the light comes, it is lost for the lines upon the stone do not reveal their secrets to the shadows of flame._

Running her right hand across the wall this time, Urith took three measured steps accordingly. From where she now stood, she turned and walked in a perfectly straight line across the room with a hand stretched out until she touched the opposite wall. Knowing the first mark of this pattern and being more familiar with this hall rather than the small door by which she had entered, Urith abandoned her grip on Reed, touching both hands to the stone, her practiced fingers finding the mark within seconds. Using this first mark as a base, she allowed herself to trail down to the floor in a straight line, finding the bottommost tile in line with the first mark and registering it in her mind as the first alphabet of runescript. Having memorized the password years ago, she immediately pressed the second tile, _Lys_ (the wolf), the seventh tile, _Íliu_ (the crow)…and after a slow and careful count…the twenty-sixth tile, _Uvoch _(the hummingbird), the thirty-fourth tile, _Pirsa _(the weasel)…and finally the fortieth tile, _Noch _(the immortal.) This last tile, she pressed twice…and ripped the first metal chain off her neck. Searching her fingers beneath the last tile, she found a crack and inserted Aeduin's First Key into the hole, turning it once counter-clockwise. Removing the key and raising herself, she began to push with her shoulder against the wall. As smooth and silent as the stone door by which she had entered, the wall slid forward, revealing…_more_ darkness. Grabbing hold of her prey (and the blanket) again, Urith entered the inner chamber of Lucian's tomb, leaving the door open behind her. (Careful in some things, if not others, Urith realized that if anything should happen to Reed or herself, it wouldn't be a bad idea for Aeduin to have access to the inner chamber…at the very least for healing purposes.) She dropped the first key on the floor for him to find later, and turned to the task at hand…

"_Almost there_," she thought, rolling her eyes and flipping a lighter out of the trench-coat she always wore. No longer needing darkness or runescript, the impatient lycan flicked the utility into flame, her other hand darting to grab two of the wooden fire-starters from a steel cup attached to the wall. Lighting the end of both sticks, she moved to either side of the stone room and touched two stands filled with oil, allowing them to burst into flame, throwing shadows and warm light through the freezing cold air. She was getting close…

Ripping the second metal chain off her neck, Urith strode to the center of the stone wall and inserted the pendant-like key into a round hole marked for turning. Although similar to the keys used in olden times by the vampire warlords, this one required no second key to enclose it as it turned. Hearing a sharp click on the other side of the wall, she removed the key, set her feet firmly on the ground and began to pull the stone wall, wedging both her hands in a crack for purchase and grunting with the effort. Although a mere human could unlock this last wall with a key, they would still need the strength of immortals to actually open it…

_Pull…_

…_push…_

…_grunt…_

…_Pheww…_

She let out a breath as the wall finally lay half open after a few seconds. Grabbing Reed off the ground, she shoved the bundle through the gap, slid through herself, and quickly placed the key in the lock mechanism on the other side. Turning it, the wall slammed shut behind them, plunging the room into a shadowy darkness tinged with the occasional ray of light coming from the holes in the wall she had just closed. She again found the steel cup of fire-starters, flicked on her lighter, and set fire to a single starter, tossing the piece of wood into the four-foot wide vat of oil that she knew lay to her right. It burst viciously into flame, the blaze traveling with speed about the room as twelve other connecting vats ignited, sending all shadows from the room and bathing the single sleeper in the light of false suns…

_Lucian… _

_He lay upon the stone dais as one garbed in the black of mourning. A simple shirt of crimson enveloped by a black coat of satin finish, embroidered with golden thread. Robed from the waist down in dark silk, his feet were bare underneath, but shrouded by the rich coverlet which draped over and across his stone bedding. The dark hair had been washed, combed and pulled back simply in the style he was most accustomed, the cord of leather binding the locks from his face, while his beard grew no more nor less than the day he fell into slumber. Framed upon lycan burial tradition, beneath his entire still body lay a long, luxurious "fur of the dead" formed by the thousands of roses, leaves, dark petals, and feathers stitched frozen upon woven burlap. A wooden mask, hewed of oak, had been placed over his face, hiding the serenity of his expression._

Urith frowned at the so-called "master" of lycans, her gaze both angry and awed by the sight of this sworn enemy. All lycans _knew_ their true leader still breathed, and though they were banned from the location of his final resting place, once Raze had explained the situation to his people three years ago, they had come together in the masses to make sure their fallen leader was garbed and put down _in state_. The black body bag (which Urith had tossed in a corner of her den, occasionally stepping on it when she was feeling short-tempered) had been removed from the underground for a fortnight. During this time, the lycan men, women, and children had prepared their leader for his final resting place, hundreds of them coming during the mourning period to bid farewell and leave a single item of nature to be stitched onto the resting cloth of their warlord. And of course…once the fourteen days were complete, Raze himself had overseen the Two of Knots, making sure they did right by the slumbering lycan.

_Indeed…_

…_the lycan master had become a sleeping prince, to be sure._

_Urith however…had other matters to attend to. Matters that had nothing to do with admiration or anger._

Striding to the regal form laid in state upon the stone, Urith quickly tossed aside the rich coverlet, the thick fabric falling in a heap beside the dais to reveal a mass of bullet-holes strewn across the lycan warlord's chest. Seemingly dead before the Two of Knots had ever received his body, Lucian had been shot to pieces, the liquid silver of the bullets hardening over time and causing his flesh to glint luxuriously in the light of flame...

Unknotting the girl from her binds, she neatly _slapped_ her across the cheeks…

"_Wake up_…" she hissed.

Reed's eyes shot open…_and then_…seeing Urith, she began to struggle in the lycan's grip, desperately trying to crawl back on her hands and knees, her mouth whimpering silently, the blood-seals finally taking their toll as she remembered the words of earlier and saw the tomb about her. The tomb with no apparent exit…the monsters, claustrophobia…and the betrayal of one she had trusted. Her brother…a monster. Unable to cry, Reed began to shiver uncontrollably, her hands grasping in the air as Urith tightened her grip on the girl's wrist.

_Perhaps she's gone completely mad_, thought Urith with a sarcastic twist of her lips. _But no matter…all I need is her hands. _Still holding the girl, she dragged her across the stone floor, pulling her up by the arms and forcing her to stand before the sleeping warlord's body and silver-infested blood.

Taking hold of each of Reed's hands, Urith turned her eyes to Lucian's flesh and prepared to enter his veins…

…o…

…o…

Aeduin glared at Raze. They were standing outside the Hall of the Dead, still tense over their fight earlier and making a shoddy attempt at small talk, speaking about the hoard, the war, the den…

…_hell_…

He'd even asked about Raze's daughter, Pavia, even though he hadn't seen the girl in centuries…_what was she? Twelve when the war started…_

Raze had coolly answered that his daughter was no business of Aeduin's, and Aeduin, shrugging, had done his best _not_ to smirk his obvious belief that any spawn of Raze must have turned out as _pathetic_, useless, and incompetent as the widowed father himself. It was no wonder Raze and Lucian had _latched_ onto each other…like a self-help group. Pledge your wounded soul to the cause and you too may be able to get over the death of your beloved dead wife.

Trying not to spit in disgust and turning back to the business at hand, Aeduin politely murmured, "_Well_…I suppose it is time we made our way to Lucian?"

"_Indeed_…" growled the impatient and tremendously deep voice, the exasperation obvious on the shadowed face behind the light of their single torch. The younger lycan always insisted on bringing a light down here…as if walking in pure darkness a thousand or so meters below the ground was _trouble_…

Aeduin acquiesced and placed his claws over the door, allowing the scanner to read his fingerprints and pass over his one eye. The door opened…

…upon light.

_Light_…

His fingers trailed to his neck, and ripping the key off his neck, Aeduin held it in his palm for a split second…_breathed_…his eye squinting, frowning…and then with a roar, he _threw_ the key to the ground, bellowing Urith's name as he sprinted through the Hall of the Dead towards the light streaming from the inner chamber which lay open…

Dashing through the room with Raze on his heels, it was obvious they were too late…the inner tomb had been sealed and light was streaming through the seeing holes. Slamming his fist against the wall and peering through a hole, Aeduin eyed Urith who stood within, quietly watching them from where she stood, her hand wrapped around each of Reed's wrists and about to touch the lycan master's chest…

"_Stop_," he hissed, knowing she would not listen. "…Victoria will die, Urith! Her mind is already warped, and by the time you get through his veins, she might already be turning to the other side again…he'll _kill_ her for being a vampire!" He wrapped his arms about the door-handles and began to tug at it, trying to open it with sheer strength and to no avail…

"And you of all people…" Urith replied from behind the wall, knowing this had to be done. "…have you forgotten Gode? Have you forgotten that this _dog_ still holds her in his mind?"

She tightened her hold on Reed, causing the girl to whimper as her (wo)manhandled body became even _more_ bruised, the unwavering lycan glaring at her brother while her resolve strengthened even more, knowing this was _necessary_ for the survival of all immortals…

…_unfortunately, her brother was blinded by sheer lust for this…trollop!_

"_Yes_," she admitted, rolling her eyes sarcastically. "…falling in that river drove Ambrose _mad_, but_ Aeduin_…_don't you understand?_ I don't need her _mind_, I need her _hands_…and tomorrow her ability to seek _silver_ could be _gone!_ Either her hybrid biology will _veer_ towards the vampire side, _jump_ towards the lycanthropes…or better yet, she could _even_ become pure _mortal_ again. And because you can't keep your damn instincts in check, we_'_ll have _passed_ our one and only chance to get into Lucian's memories and perhaps even _wake_ him!" Her eyes had started to rage through this speech, growing white as she became more fierce and enraged than she'd been in two years since their last argument regarding how to wake the lycan master. With the ivory hair flipped over one side of her dark trenchcoat and glaring viciously with such vibrant eyes, the wild Urith, feared by the lycan race for almost a millennium, had become rather…

…_sexy_, thought Raze suddenly, appalled that he could be thinking about another woman after he had so blatantly shown his fondness for the female in her grasp. Reed's scent however had faded since this morning and, all this time, as Raze watched silently through the hole, he was slowly becoming aware of characteristics in Urith that he quite liked. True, he was aware that this Victoria Reed represented far more than he had first assumed…but listening to Urith's speech, he began to sense the immense possibilities. Lucian…_Urith was trying to wake Lucian with this girl_…and that was…_good_.

Aeduin shoved his entire body against the wall, causing it to rumble with the force, but by no means, give way. "That's just the point, Urith! What if he _does_ wake? Reed's not as alpha as she was this morning, but the two of you? _Together_? He could drag you both down with him just by the smell!"

Completely ignoring the lycan who had followed Aeduin into the inner chamber, Urith continued hissing at her brother. "How _flattering_…but as I said before…_brother_…I would _sorely_ like to open my gift…" she murmured, alluding to their earlier conversation in the control room. "…and I don't give a horse's bleeding heart whether you've got feelings for this mortal. If it makes you feel any better," and she smirked suddenly. "Think of her as a key. A living…_breathing_…key."

And with that, Urith slammed both of Reed's hands upon the lycan warlord's chest, her eyes flashing as Reed's violent blue eyes began to glow softly white, gleaming white, _blinding_ light until both Aeduin and Raze were forced to look away from the bloodseeker and her tool making contact upon the veins of a lycan warlord. For several seconds, the light traveled through the entire room until howling, their mouths caught open to the ceiling as one, Aeduin and Raze heard a hoarse roar of intense pain, _power_, and rage escaping the inner tomb.

The light died.

Crouched on the ground and rising to their feet now, the two alpha lycans immediately rushed to the stone wall, gaping through the seeing holes and horrified by the sight that greeted their eyes.

Collapsed upon the stone dais, Reed and Urith both lay as if sleeping, their eyes closed, their faces vacant and mouths hanging slightly open. The mask of Lucian had fallen to the ground, revealing the same calm and serene expression of one who continued to rest peaceful in his slumber. The nails on both his hands had extended into claws and, though fast asleep, each motionless talon had wrapped itself viciously around the hair of the two women flung across his bed. Another moment awake and the lycan warlord might have ripped them to pieces. Save for this, there was no other sign that Lucian had woken for a split-second before dropping to his slumber once more…

…_Lucian had woken for a split second…_Raze almost smiled, but…

_Urith and Reed…_

"Where are they?" he asked, still gazing through the hole.

"Inside _him_," replied a very miserable Aeduin who knew the danger Urith had brought upon herself and the girl she had towed with her…perhaps they would wake today. Perhaps tomorrow…

…and perhaps Lucian had _dragged_ them down to rest with him for eternity. You never knew with these stupid hibernating lycans who wouldn't wake on their own accord. Victoria might be doomed, but deep down inside, it was his sister for whom he worried…_she had betrayed him and brought this upon herself_…but already he missed her cool, wintry voice. Hopefully, she had enough training to get out, but there was no guarantee.

"What do we do now?" asked Raze quietly, speaking the words that were on both their minds…

Aeduin sighed, allowing his body to slide down, seating himself wearily against the stone wall and dropping his head back as he closed his one eye.

"We _wait_…" he murmured.


	13. Chapter 9: The Misuse of Ambrose Reed

**Chapter 9: The Misuse of Ambrose Reed**

_2002 A.D. Four years ago…_

…_o…_

_Tossing and turning as the pack made ready for war, she had warned him last night through dreams and visions, bidding him rise up and flee before the vampires came…_

"_Flee the tunnels, youngling," she had whispered in his mind._

"_But why," he had questioned her…still afraid of this wild creature. Afraid of what she was asking him to do. For the hundredth time since she had first spoken to him two years past, he wondered…was she a figment? A dead spirit? His madness returning again…_

_But spirit or not, he adored her…_

…_and would do as she asked._

Crouched by the air flowing up and towards the nightsky, Ambrose watched and waited by the empty windshaft, the grimy coat he wore covering his shadowy hair and ferocious blue eyes. His face and body were smeared with dirt and dried blood…and though his mission required such smokescreens, it was the mechanical wind blowing past him that just managed to hide the telltale scent of elderflowers that followed wherever he went. Others were in the tunnels, but he paid them no mind. He knew the ones that had seen him would be dead within moments, and the rest of his pack had no time to notice a grimy lycan who faded into shadows without trace. They were too concerned with fleeing as the last of Viktor's force succumbed to unclean death by the sword of a deathdealer. Tense, he almost growled, observing as the Corvin pup, newest of their pack, left the sewers with his new vampiric mate…

And then, wincing to himself, he realized…

"_Pup?"_

Acknowledging the patronizing tone of his words, his smooth forehead creased into a mixture of disgust and amusement. A mere three years he'd been a lycan, and already, he spoke of _pups_ and _mates_ as if born a son of wolves.

Shaking his head, he dropped swiftly and silently to the ground in the air of emptiness, knowing he must quicken his pace. He loped past the dead bodies of his wolfen brothers, the sense of _her_ presence urging him to hurry, speaking of time and hearts and silver. And by the strength of _her_ humming voice, he leaped to the upper floors, scraping his shins upon the broken hole…

…only to gasp, his eyes grief-stricken for the first time since he had stolen back into the sewers.

By nature, lycans were bred on pack-mentality…_utter loyalty, so to speak_…and though his immortal side had grown callous and felt no love for this alpha, the sensitive mortal within Ambrose _wept_ for his beloved leader…

…_and as if on cue, a sly memory crept onto the face of Ambrose's conscience, forcing him to remember…_

_Three years ago…_

_In the space of a bite, his entire world had changed. He had no home…no life. His sire was dead, and the few stragglers who ran packless on the streets had moved to higher grounds. For months, he had kept himself alive, stealing through day, and sleeping through night, keeping to the shadows and avoiding vampires as best he could. And though Ambrose could hardly blame Lucian for his current status as "newly changed pup," somehow the war…the pain…the loss of everything and everyone he held dear…_

…_it made him want to hurt the mysterious alpha._

_But true to form, Ambrose Reed was no murderer._

_Just a thief._

…o…

…o…

_The rest of the hoard opted to kill the dark-haired stranger where he lay, bleeding in the gutter._

Not even bothering to argue or plead, Ambrose curled further into his blood, waiting for one of the twelve triggers to go off. Blessed with a keen and logical wit, he assumed his death warrant had been signed the moment that _immense_, nameless ruffian had slammed him into the ground thirty yards from freedom. Silently, he waited…_hoped_…and _begged _for death…until suddenly, the bastard himself came upon the scene. Breaking the lycan-thrashing with a sharp word and casually retrieving his pendant from Ambrose's broken and blood-soaked fingers, Lucian quietly requested of the heavily wounded pup his _name_ and den-faction.

As could be expected, a tense moment passed in which Ambrose tried to _stare_ the immovable alpha down, only to end with Ambrose _himself_ squinting at the wall, blushing furiously as he blinked back the sudden threat of tears…

_For his part, Lucian continued to stare firmly at the thief, unmoved by such fake expressions of sorrow upon an enemy's face. And noting the faint scar along the newly-changed youngling's neck and the arrogant silence, the alpha switched his Hungarian tongue to Russian, careful to avoid English as he tested out the waters…_

"Kak tebya zavut?" said the lycan master to the sullen youngling…

_No response…_

"Ako sa voláš?" he murmured in perfect Slovak…

_Ambrose sniffed…keeping his silence…_

"Tu t'appelles comment?" the lycan master pressed, noting another twitch of the pup's ear.

_Finally returning to his Hungarian tongue, the alpha changed his eyes to the terrifying glaze of lycan's white, smiling benevolently to further goad the youth… _"I know you understand me, youngling," _he hissed_. "…so I suggest you _answer_ before this ends in another nameless _death_."

_Nameless death, thought Ambrose._

_Nameless DEATH?_

_You WANKER._

And suddenly _irritated_ beyond measure by the cunning turns of the patronizing alpha's tongue, unwilling to admit his homeless pedigree, yet expecting to be shot any minute, and already half-dead anyway, a blood-soaked, snappish Ambrose had _sneered_ from the ground, coughing up what might have been a tooth, before spitting out in flawless English…

"Well as long as it's for the _GRAAVE_, that's _perfectly fine _then! The name's _Margaret_, Sergeant First Class _Homeless_ of the Lycan Girl's Brigade, sir…but just for **_kicks_**, _YOU_ can call me 'Daisy'! Is that _alright _with you, _love_? Should I _spell_ it for you?"

_Unfortunately, this little tirade earned another (indeed) sharp kick from at least three lycans, not one, as Lucian was now far too busy raising an eyebrow and (no doubt) plotting how best to trounce this unarmed (apparently British, insolent, spoiled, good-for-nothing) pup who managed to sneak (twice!) past four dozen soldiers, palm metal off a sleeping lycan master's neck, raid the larder and make it halfway out of the sewers before accidentally running into Raze (who just happened to be coming back by chance from an unscheduled hunting mission above ground.)_

_And though he waited for death, a surprise awaited the dark-haired thief…_

Several minutes passed, and after finishing his contemplation of "Sergeant First Class Daisy of the Lycan Girl's Brigade," Lucian, his expression now completely unreadable, suddenly shook his head, frowning at the vagrant's sordid state and stolen cuts of blood red meat lying ruined in the gutter.

To Ambrose's horror, amazement, and wonder, the haunting leader arose from his crouch, turned to the pack and said "Break him in" before stalking away, flanked by Raze, Pierce, and Taylor. The effect was instantaneous…and though the guns weren't quite lowered, Ambrose found himself being dragged back into the den by a posse of lycans, cleaned up, clothed, and _given_ real food (other than rats) for the first time in several months. After five solid weeks of interrogation and background checks were through, he'd eventually become acclimatized…

…_and though kept out of the lycan master's path for his own safety, Ambrose's little stunt had earned him a place as the most gifted thief ever to grace the Budapest faction of lycans. Passes, keys, codes, locks, teeth…you name it, Ambrose could probably steal it for you. _

_But those days were gone._

…o…

…o…

…and shaking himself firmly from the memory, the war-torn Ambrose's mind returned to the present and the fallen leader who had once welcomed him into his pack three years ago…

_Surely he is dead…_

The thought came unbidden as he stared, uncomfortable with the sorrow he felt…

…but _her_ voice came harsh in rebuke…

"_Fool! He lives, and yet your lingering grief would cause him death! Pierce his veins or flee, youngling, but already you tarry too long…"_

Ambrose flinched as if struck (so loud was the spirit's voice)…but quelling his inner turmoil, he obeyed her command. Stealing towards the lycan master, he uncapped the injection clenched in his fingers, taking care to avoid contact with the liquid silver drenching Lucian's chest. Biting his own lip as he knew _she_ would be watching, he pierced the lycan's neck and transferred the clear liquid into the blood. And then, aware the Cleaners would be here soon, he quickly removed the injection, replacing the cap and pocketing the evidence.

He stepped back…

"It is done…"

"_Then burn the mark and get you hence!"_

Her words startled him, but suddenly frozen and almost…_troubled_, his face turned to the ceiling as in question (though in truth, he knew not where her harsh voice came from.)

"But what if they don't realize he's…"

"_Trust, youngling…whether for lycan or tomb, Corvinus will not burn this body tonight. He will send it to the Two of Knots…" _Her voice had begun lilting and crooning once more, as if to remind him of her soothing nature…

…_which of late _(he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow) _had become quite glaring._

Almost lamenting his betrayal and kneeling swiftly, Ambrose bowed his head one final time. "Forgive me, Lucian…" As _she_ had taught him, he placed his fingers lightly on the lycan master's temple as if in blessing, and wary of approaching sounds, sought to burn what he must upon the unconscious lycan.

_The anvil, two dots, and the line…_

Just thinking about it made his skin crawl. But it had to be done. It was necessary the aged bloodseekers believe this final transgression. Necessary they believe Lucian had _recent_ aid from the tarnished Silversmith, long thought to be dead. _A pitiless hoax, but a final gift to immortals all the same…_

…_for what fools would wage war if Yllarius Kovacs walked the streets again? Vampires and lycans alike would drop their weapons at the slightest hint and turn as one to fight this long-remembered foe…perhaps even ceasefire. By all record, only the Two of Knots and Miklos remained as bloodseekers…and as both sides could fully ascertain that neither of them had burned this mark nor blessed Lucian into hibernation, the only options left were the dead demon Kovacs or the sleeping Third Knot! Indeed, **she** had taught him well in the past two years…_

Even without her visions and just by the _horror_ stories still told to children over the campfires, Ambrose _knew_ what the name _Kovacs_ meant to the immortal world. And if Lucian could feign death for so long, why not the ill-famed Silversmith? It could be the _end_ of the war…no more running. No more _hiding_, no more death…

…_a ceasefire._

_Or so **she** had said, persuading him with her occasionally calm and soothing voice._

Swaying his head suddenly, Ambrose soared onto the hunt, his eyes turning white as he targeted the blood of memories. His neck jerking back and tensing as he hissed from the pain of touching one so tainted with silver. But clenching his teeth, Ambrose spoke the words of sealing before drawing the symbol…

"_Nyl, Noch, Lys, Dag…"_

_The human, the immortal, the wolf, the owl…_

_The anvil…two dots…_

…_the line._

The symbol flared for a moment, and unexpectedly, he could feel _her_ touch through his hand...

…_**she** was clawing…clenching his fingers…_

Almost as if trying to…

…take over.

His voice grew hoarse upon the last words…

…and then _broke_ as an iron paw _gripped_ his wrist, the long nails tearing into Ambrose's flesh, causing him to yelp and let go as _Lucian's_ final strength forced the youngling's hand from his temple. The dark voice of his mind _screamed_ and gasping, Ambrose felt the seeker's connection shatter, tainting more than just the master's blood.

"What t-the _hell_ do you think _you're**aahhHH**_," grated the lycan master, agony breaking his words. His body shuddering as the now-abandoned mark of the Silversmith shredded through his memories… The fading lycan losing his hold, convulsing at the foot of the one who kneeled before him. Bitterness coursing through his mind as he strove to hold on to the one memory that kept him breathing all these long centuries. His reason for existence fading as the centuries of thought bled from his conscience…

"_Sonja_…" he whispered, the shadowed eyes cursing Ambrose as the pulse of his heart slowed. The rest of his memories dying as the blood running through his veins ground to a halt.

Slower_…slower…_

The heart stopped.

_And now completely lost in the silver of his own veins, the bloodsoul of Lucian flowed into the nether regions of his conscience…his body and mind taken over by slumbering hibernation. The liquid river addling his wits as the shards of a failed bloodseal obliterated his memories of life before…_

Ambrose gulped, eying the silver-veined temple of Lucian where an anvil, two dots, and a line ought to have shown.

The mark had disappeared…

…and his mind voice began to grow frantic.

_How would the First Knot know? The body must remain here and no one must know the part he played, but_…

…_for crap's sake!_

A faint wail threatened to explode in the lycan's head (vaguely similar to that of a certain dark-haired sister of his, currently residing somewhere in the south of the United Kingdom,) but abruptly remembering his status as a cruel, vengeful immortal, Ambrose stamped down the quails of his (rather _sensitive_) mortal side.

He had…_botched_ it, he realized, his forehead creasing with frustration and fear_…but_…

…_did he dare risk it again?_

"_Cinder…I…I think I…"_

"…_Cinder?"_

Again he called her by name, anxious to know what he should do…

…but she had disappeared.

He sniffed the air, listening as the sound of footsteps echoed somewhere in the distance._ The Cleaners! _Swiftly recovering from his shock and still nursing his wounded wrist, Ambrose swallowed and fled, knowing they would be upon the sewers in moments. Almost at the subway line, he leaped on a ladder towards the ceiling, grasping the rungs and making his way up as he bid the _Change_ come over him again. When the grate finally opened on the deserted streets above, it was not a man of lycan blood that exited the sewers…

…_but a mortal._

Flipping his hood back from his head again, a restless and fretful urchin aged just over twenty years named Ambrose Reed, slipped into the shadows of Budapest. Deep within, his inner wolf began to howl at being trapped once more, but he paid it no mind. By tomorrow morning, it would be unleashed again when he returned, but tonight…while the vampires and lycans prowled the streets scenting out each other…he would need the scent of a mortal to sleep safely.

_Perhaps she who called herself Cinder would speak to him again by then…_

_Tell him what to do…where to go…_

_For, in truth…_

…he missed her voice.

* * *

_A/N: Please read and review! (The next chapter will be up very soon as it's already almost done, and in case you were wondering, yes, it's FULL of Lucian. A slightly changed Lucian, but Lucian nonetheless.)_

_(Thanks for the nice review of the last chapter by the way! I appreciate it. Also got my first flame, which was a little downheartening, but that's alright. I deleted that one. I'm not going to slice my wrists just because someone hasn't got anything better to do than dictate how I should best kill myself without giving any constructive criticism. I suppose it could almost be considered flattering since either they didn't read the story at all, or they actually DID take the time out to read 28,000 words. Anyway, back to writing..._

_...and in case there are any Underworld Cup readers here, I do have plans to write more of that one. Just have to finish up the next chapter of Lucian's Respite.)_


	14. Chapter 10: Lucian, the Master of Muck

**Chapter 10: Introducing Lucian, the Master of Muck**

_2002 A.D._

_And now completely lost in the silver of his own veins, the bloodsoul of Lucian flowed into the nether regions of his conscience…his body and mind taken over by slumbering hibernation. The liquid river addling his wits as the shards of a failed bloodseal obliterated all his memories of life before…_

…_except for one._

…_o…_

…_o…_

_Silence…mist…and the dull sheen of sunlight trying to flow fitfully through a mesh of silvery wet vapour and vapid moorland. The river lies perfectly still as if nothing in this scenic place has stirred since the dawn of time. Indeed, time holds no sway for in two minutes, a lifetime could pass…or a breath…_

…_though none would know it for bloodsouls do not age beyond the last memory to grace their living bodies…_

Lucian trailed his fingers along the silver water's edge, drawing his breath lightly through the bone-pipe held in his right hand. Both eyes were carelessly closed, and he lay along the riverbank in a simple woolen tunic…his feet bare and soiled from the muck of crawling through bogs, the dark hair tangled and free, yet melding with the coarse grass and mud beneath his form. Still keeping his sights dark, he nestled his torso deeper and listened carefully to air flowing in and around the newly fashioned sound-holes…

…_silence_.

Turning the pipe over to his left hand, he frowned into its mouth for a moment before swishing it vigorously through the river water on his left. Scarcely altering his position, he blew fiercely through the pipe several times, wiped it across his grimy shirt, and finally satisfied, lifted the dry instrument to his own (ever so slightly delicate) mouth once more. He took a breath of air, and blew upon the bone…

…and like the first blush of dawn, the sound came slight and unsure, wavering its way from weary lungs, but soon…as his lips became more attuned, a melee of haunting notes drifting clear and true across air, almost piercing the silvery mist that shrouded the (still vapid) moorland. The ground was freezing, and there was a strange calm about the morning…as if time had halted and the very birds had flown to escape dead silence. _ A pity they fled before he could charm them with such wailing melodies_…although most would think twice about approaching a creature of his…_roughness_.

…_but what was he doing here?_

Bewildered and shaking himself among the reeds, he sat up and stared intensely at his nimble fingers…_the palm of his hands…the veins running along his skin…the polished flute_…and then beyond at the reflection upon the silver waters. Tilting his head from side to side, he frowned at his own teeth, trying to distinguish the source of his unease. By the blood running through his own heart, he was healthy. His cheeks were…_rosy_. His skin smooth as a lycan pup. The hint of a beard growing upon his chin. And indeed, there was nothing askew about his hearty bearing, but leaning himself down upon both elbows to peer closer at the river, he knew _something_ was wrong. The dark hair, shorn to his shoulders and now hanging lank over water, thick and winding, creating small ripples where it touched…

_Small ripples…_

Soothed by the movement, he relaxed his posture and sat back, trying to sort out this strange sense of what lay about him. And as if by rote, the words sounded off in his memory, too practiced to be true, yet _all he could remember_ as he continued staring at the shining causeway…

"_I am seventeen years of age…and Janos has already informed me of my fate, taking me aside during the noontime meal not two days past. Come new moon, I am to be carted off to the breeding grounds of Viktor…"_

Still gazing upon the silver waters of the river, the words turned and turned through his missing memories, an exhaustion built of years seeping into his youthful bones…_and as the hours continued to drift by…_hour upon hour…_upon hour_…it began to feel as if Lucian had _always_ lived there among the reeds. As if he had _always_ played this pipe. And, in truth, he could not remember when last he had returned to the keep, which itself, had already begun to fade away…


	15. Chapter 11: The Warning of a Madman

**Chapter 11: The Warning of a Madman**

_2004 A.D._

_Two years later…_

With a drowsy yawn, Lucian sat up again, squinting groggily about the reeds and riverbed. Unconsciously, he wiped his face with the back of his hand, trying to banish the sleep which had overtaken him. _Janos would be furious if he returned late from his chores_… But nervously, he studied his surroundings, trying to ascertain how much time had passed. The mist had not changed. The sun had not moved in its path. And no doubt he had only dosed for several minutes…

His gaze even turned to the tiny willow tree rooting itself upon the ground where his firewood had once lain. His bone pipe now weathered in mud…

…_and again, as if by rote, the words sounded off in his memory, too practiced to be true, yet all he could remember as he continued staring at the roots lined along the shining causeway…_

"_I am seventeen years of age…and Janos has already informed me of my fate, taking me aside during…"_

Abruptly, the sound of a stork interrupted his reverie…and turning his head slightly, Lucian sighted the creature nervously searching beside the water's edge. All thought of rivers and fate flew from his brain, and hungrily, he licked his teeth, knowing he had not eaten for several hours…_or was it days? _And easing himself to his front, he began to stalk the creature, silently padding through the reeds which seemed to turn from his passing as he willed it. For a brief moment, he even contemplated that this riverbank might be his and the water, reeds, and all the creatures about him merely existed as he willed them…but the moment passed, and soon after, any notion that his surroundings might not be _real_ left his conscience.

Almost upon the stork, he silently felt his nails growing to a point, and without hesitation, caught the creature's neck in his grip, twisting it about to face…

…only to realize he held the neck…_of a mortal._

The stork had disappeared.

"What do you here?" he asked suspiciously, eying the dark-haired man who struggled between his talons. His hair was cut strangely…_and the smell_…

…_he smelled of lycan._

"_H-help me_…" the mortal gasped, clawing at Lucian's grime-ridden nails…unwary of asking this river…_demon_…for help just so he might flee whatever it was that chased him.

Vaguely unsettled, Lucian's forehead scrunched into a frown, certain this poor soul must be addled in the brain. He had never been asked for help by a _mortal_. Even far off villagers knew the stories…and any fool enough to venture near Viktor's lands knew full well to steer clear of the river. Perhaps it might be better to release him. _Better to go hungry than eat tainted food…_

"_Please…_" whispered the man, creasing his eyes...verging on tears, yet trying with all his might to look behind him. Trying to flee something worse than a lycan… "_I almost fell in the river. I cannot_…_reach the other side, and yet she's coming…don't you understand, demon? She'll be here any minute and…_"

Abruptly, the mortal cut himself off…

His eyes began to widen, as he _really_ saw his captor for the first time. His tongue gaping and lost for words as something broken in his terrified brain clicked, and almost spluttering, he managed to utter…

"_Y-you are…_" He spluttered again…

"_Y-y-you are…"_

Lucian growled. "_I am_…_I am_…_speak_, mortal, I grow old…"

"_Y-you are_…_L-Lucian."_

"I am." The lycan agreed with a frown, displeased that his name had traveled beyond the keep. Secrecy was the key to the vampire's safety, and if this _madman_ knew a lowly slave by name, something was strongly amiss in the house of Viktor…

"_But you're so_…_y-you're so…_"

"I'm _sooo_…" coaxed Lucian, slightly losing his patience with this lunatic, but realizing only time could aid speech impediments.

"_You're so," _the mortal squinted his eyes, and then…looking up and down, managed to utter lamely… "…y_oung."_

"_Young?" _Lucian glowered, severely offended and tightening his grip on the mortal's throat. One minute he was too _old_ for childish things and must breed for the vampire masters, and the next his breakfast was sizing him up. He sniffed again, a bit baffled by the scent of lycan on this man. He couldn't be more than…five and twenty…and contaminated. _Definitely not worth it…_

He dropped the madman to the ground, now intent on finding other (more hygienic) means of satisfying his ravenous appetite. Immediately, spying a line of deer tracks that did not exist ten seconds ago, Lucian bowed his departure to the strange man and turned towards the wood.

"_Wait!_" cried the man, now on his knees and crawling after the lycan.

Not caring to slow his pace down, Lucian strode from the river past undergrowth, reeds, heather, and trees, his deep, melodious voice brushing off the man's words… "Talk to me in about two hundred _years_, mortal…perhaps my age will have ripened by then."

Hastening his pace, the man stumbled after the lycan. "_Sir!_ _Lucian! Please, sir…please just wait a minute…I did not mean to offend…"_

Lucian halted, swiftly turning to eye his stalker, the words coming out in the growl of one who had not yet learned to fully harness his anger. "_Begone!_ The only thing halting my teeth is your palpable _madness_, and though your address is flattering, judging by my 'childish' age, I am no knight, and I _guarantee_ you, I have no need for a page." He bit his teeth at the man for good measure and turned…

…only to find the man had swung his _arms_ about the base of one of Lucian's ankles.

_Oh, pox on your mother's pelt, _thought the groaning lycan. He might have to murder this mortal after all…

"_Get off!"_ he snarled.

"_But sir…"_

"I am not a _knight, you fool!"_

"_But I've been sent to…"_

"_OFF!" _roared the lycan, baring his teeth and raising his hackles against the mortal who dared accost a living, breathing _werewolf_.

And as if burned, the dark-haired man immediately let go of Lucian's ankle, the rest of him cowering upon the forest floor, but remaining bowed as if before a pack leader. Pushed beyond his breaking point, the young Lucian took the submissive stance to be another sign of madness and began growling as he backed away…

"If there is any sense left in your mind, _mortal_," he hissed, stepping across branches, his storm-ridden eyes lined into slits. "…I suggest you heed my words, and flee this place. You might escape with your life this time, but let my _age_ not fool you. I am _lycan_," he growled. "…and I will tear you to pieces the next time you walk upon this path. _Tainted_ meat or not…"

_Please, by the blood of Viktor's veins, let me be rid of this fanatic, _thought Lucian, reluctant to kill a meal after he had spoken to it for a full ten minutes…

But the man merely shook his head bitterly towards the ground…

…and looking up, disconcertingly, began to smile. A sad and desperate smile. And then laughter. Horrifying laughter, even to the ears of one who had seen seventeen years of blood and full moons. The scent of lycan beginning to grow upon the mortal's person, as with shock, Lucian realized the dark-haired man had acquired a set of pearly white, sharpened wolf teeth. Still bowed upon the ground, the man…_the lycan in human form_…whose eyes now gleamed white and whose talons now held purchase upon roots, licked his lips…still laughing now and again…before speaking in the ancient tongue of seekers…

"_I bring you a warning, Lucian…and though you must not remember nor wake, the one who would steal your broken memories comes with the night. She seeks to pass the silver river and searches for the pattern of Gode, her vengeful teeth eager for ancient blood and souls. You are lost upon the paths, and for this, I apologize. I should have been more careful. But heed my words, Lucian…with the blood of Gode, this creature seeks to…"_

And sharply gazing up at the shocked youth, the dark-haired lycan hissed the last words…

"_...Milord, she seeks to end…life…immortals…everything! You must understand, sire…she of the cinders…the thief who comes in your midst! She is the end of life itself! And I beseech you, sire…keep the pattern and the key…trust no one…"_

Breaking off, he gulped, catching a sob and punching the ground with one fist as if to hold back his sorrow. Unbeknownst to Lucian, the _Change_ had already begun to die down and within minutes, the talons upon the dark-haired lycan would transform back into the blunt nails of a mortal hand. He would lose his chance. Biting back his tears, the struggling lycan got wearily to his feet, and looked Lucian in the eye…

"…_trust not even myself." _He whispered.

The words were spoken hoarsely, as if hope itself had abandoned the stranger's den. And indeed, the stranger was only _too_ _aware_ of what awaited Lucian had he continued to listen to the seemingly _helpless_ babbling mortal…the possessed creature that sought to cling so desperately to a lycan's person, but in truth, aided a vengeful enemy who simply wanted to _cross_ the silver waters on a lycan's _back_…

…and turning towards the river, the dark-haired lycan spoke again, the tears finally deigning to show in his hunted eyes…

"_She sliced me in twain and thinks to use my mortal side. Even now, Lucian…she thinks to use my voice. She struggles, trying to charm and desperate to eat your memories. And though I would have served you to the grave, sire...traitor am I. Invader, she comes. And now, there is no more time."_

Abruptly shaking his head as if waking from a dream, Lucian swallowed, his words and thoughts cut in half by the sudden transformation of this helpless mortal…his eyes still formed into slits…his youthful mind terrified by this _stork-demon_, but unwilling to show fear. _The makings of a true lycan master…_

"_**Who** are you!_" the shocked youth managed to growl, snapping his teeth finally.

But the strange lycan only smiled wanly in answer, vaguely pleased at the forceful innocence of this lycan master whose memories had ceased before ever he reached the fortress of Viktor. And, in truth, a semblance of communication with the blood-soul of Lucian was more than could be asked for…_and_ _enough perhaps to change the tides_. Although he regretted having to burn _words_ upon a lycan master's soul memories…

…_but no time._

Already, he felt the lunatic _mortal_ trying to break free and his wolf's blood _howling_ as it sensed the trap descending...and _Cinder_ trying to assume control of his split and maddened senses once more. Aware of what he must now do, the stranger faced his former master and bowed at the waist, lowering his head in deference. It was time to be gone before **_she_** came through his blood. Time to be gone before _night_ had a chance to fall over this eternal daylight…

"_I **asked** you a question, spirit,"_ snarled Lucian again, his hackles fully raised as he adopted the threatening stance of an alpha ready to tear another's body limb from limb…

"_Ambrose, sir…"_ answered the dark-haired lycan sorrowfully. "…_I am Ambrose."_

Without another word, he pelted off into the forest towards the silver river, smashing through the undergrowth, branches, and trails. Swiftly, Lucian tore after him, running to catch up with this strange lycan just as they met water, where crashing against the bank, the chasing youth grasped the stranger's arm, only to find a stork beating its wings madly against the silver water, thrusting itself beyond his reach and flying beneath the shining waters. The river swallowed the creature, and Lucian, standing in water up to his waist, was alone once more.

_But even as he searched the waters frantically, dashing his fingers along and through the waters in a rage, the mist began soothing his tempestuous person…_

_And almost as in a daze, his eyes lost their focus…_

_Small ripples…_

Suddenly exhausted, Lucian relaxed his posture and stepped back towards the shore, trying to sort out this strange sense of what lay about him. And immediately and for the third time that…_day_…as if by rote, the words sounded off in his memory, too practiced to be true, yet all he could remember as he stared vacantly through the haze…

"_I am seventeen years of age…and Janos has already informed me of my fate, taking me aside during the noontime meal not two days past. Come new moon, I am to be carted off to the breeding grounds of Viktor…"_

Rolling onto his back, the long-haired lycan closed his weary eyes and dropped himself back into the mud…his breath coming to a slow rest. The growing willow, _now reaching towards the waters_, lying abandoned to his right as a not-so-constant reminder that, _in truth_...

..._time_ continued to pass…


	16. Chapter 12: The Slight Awakening

_A/N: Please read and review (It's much easier to write if you know someone's reading.) Anyway, the last three chapters including this one actually started as one extremely looooong read, so I just split it up into three portions. Hope people are aware of the time settings (when I say 2006 A.D., I mean in the real world outside Lucian's veins...and yes, this entire misty world of silver rivers is meant to be in Lucian's veins. Hence...blood-memories. As a final note, Reed and Lucian finally meet in this chapter...hope you enjoy their banter.)_

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* * *

Chapter 12: The Slight Awakening of Lucian**

_Two years later…_

…_also known as, the Present. 2006 A.D._

With an outraged shout, Lucian sat up (_yet_ _again)_, both his eyes glaring brutally about the reeds, willow and riverbed. Unconsciously, he wiped his face with the back of his hand, trying to banish the sleep which had overtaken him. _Janos would be furious if he returned late from his chores…but the mist had not changed. The sun had not moved in its path. And no doubt he had only dosed for several…_

_Now wait a minute…_

_Wait…**just**…one…minute!_

Lucian jumped to his feet, both arms recklessly flung out, his first impulse to bite and his second to flee. He breathed nervously, his head turning from right…to left…to right _again_. The willow trunk had shot up at least thirty or so feet into the air, the branches now shading him with the grossly overgrown branches as he gawked at the moss-covered bark. Looking down, his weathered pipe had cracked and lay aged and yellowing among the willow roots.

Stumbling away from the riverbank, he sat himself firmly upon a bank of heather and began to run several claws through his hair, vigorously trying to piece together how in Viktor's name a piece of firewood could have generated an aged tree of at least…

His mouth dropped open… _Wolf's bane, how many years have passed?_

He studied his palms, trying to age himself by the life lines and too fearful to go near the river to gauge his reflection lest he fall into slumber again. The palms were smooth, his body still taut and muscled. The skin as flushed and glowing as it had been when he had first picked up his pipe. By all accounts, he might not have aged a day…and yet…he was forgetting something…

…or someone…

"…_the one who would steal your memories…"_

Ah ha…a good start. Something about stealing memories…

"…_seeks to pass…"_

Seeks to pass _what?_

"…_and though you must **not** remember **nor** wake…"_

Gritting his teeth doggedly, Lucian massaged his temples trying with _all his might_ to remember **_and_** wake, knowing within his heart that it was imperative he concentrate on what he knew to be the key to…_everything_…

…_and as if on cue..._

…the sound of a woman _screaming_ erupted through his senses. Screaming_…and _screaming_…and screaming! _Balking from the noise, Lucian snarled, falling to the heather, his grey stormy eyes sealed shut and trying to cover both his ears from the screams of that…_vengeful siren!_ _She must be a harpy!_ She…_whoever she was_…screamed as if the very demons below were after her, and suddenly…

…he _howled_, trying to hold onto his sanity, as the scream entered his conscience and the pain of a thousand torches burned upon his skin_…_

_Such pain as he had never known it before, it felt as if the silver brand of Viktor were being sliced across his skin, burning his body inch for inch and pound for pound. Memories of the mark placed on his shoulder seared into his conscience, the pain multiplied by a hundred…a thousand…ten thousand…_

…_rising and swelling, the burns spread across his body, the fur of his soul turning to ashes…_

_Viktor's blood, make it stop!_

…_o…_

…_o…_

Emitting a hoarse roar of intense pain, _power_, and rage, Lucian wrenched his eyes open to see…_darkness_. A pressure upon his face…a _mask_. Breathing heavily, his entire body felt chased…caught. _Numb_…but no more pain. No more _screaming_. Mustering all his energy, the lycan shook his head _once_, the wooden mask dropping from his face to reveal light…

…stones…

…a _tomb of ancients!_

The rest of his body lay in stasis, as if the muscles had atrophied. He could breathe…move his eyelids and lips…but his soul _howled_ as it contemplated the thought of being buried alive beneath the grounds. The sky…the mist…it was as if the stillness of his veins had been transferred to this cold tomb, the flaming light caught between time and the shadows halted mid-flicker…those standing nearby frozen in their movements and voices…

_I am only a lycan slave…how can…how can I…_

…_seventeen years of age…_

_Buried alive…_

Suddenly terrified, the youthful soul trapped in the deadened body began to struggle, throwing his entire life-force against fate as he fought against the bonds of flesh. Wolf's bane, he thought, catching sight of the area below his neck… The lycan women were already doing _final_ ministrations upon his body! The tomb would be closed and he would be trapped! He had to break free…had to get out…_had to_…

…_had to…_

He sneezed suddenly, and almost immediately, a whiff of _something_ _good_ began to drift playfully towards his senses…

"_What is that…that smell…" _he thought, sniffing in bewilderment and forgetting to fight against his bonds…

It was like…

_Cinnamon…_

…_and gathered sage._

_Honeysuckle…_

…_a hint of spice…_

_And what on earth? _

(And not entirely for the sake of investigation, he sniffed the air draping itself sinuously about his senses, his nose trying to make sense of it all…_for beneath the spiced cinnamon and gathered sage, another fragrance drifted below the trapped lycan's delighted nostrils_…)

_**ALPHA**!_

Possessed of a violent longing, the grin on Lucian's face turning into a ferocious roar as the last of his energy threw itself upon claws grasping purchase on the arms of the two lycan women whose hands lay pressed against his chest in their stillness. Snarling and no longer able to think straight, the crazed lycan howled with his conquest, pulling them closer towards him, barely keeping his sanity as one of the women…

…_a dark-haired creature…_

_Moving in the stillness of the tomb, her eyes violently white…_

Turning her terrified head, whimpering and mewling as she tried to escape, but completely trapped by the sage-woman's frozen grip and the lycan master's maddened claws, the dark-haired woman…_without once opening her mouth_…began to _scream _in the stillness of time, her seeker voice unheard by those around her, but entering the conscience of the soul whose skin she touched as the pain of a thousand torches _again_ began to burn upon his person_…_

…_and just before the pain took over…_

A thought drifted into Lucian's battered conscience.

_Fear…_

…_this woman fears me…_

And emitting a hoarse roar of intense pain, _power_, and rage, Lucian sealed his eyes shut again to try and escape the woman's voice and the pain that seared across his body…

…_rising and swelling, the burns spread across his body, the fur of his soul turning to ashes…_

…_have to escape…_

…_must…_

…_ESCAPE!_

…_o…_

…_o…_

As if only a single second had passed, Lucian gasped, suddenly back in his _own_ world (as he saw it) and shivering upon the heather, his eyes sealed shut, and unconsciously trying to cover both ears. The scream had stopped and all injuries vanished in a flash…and though he knew his skin still remained on his body, the memory of being burned alive was not something so easily forgotten…

_Such pain…_

_He could remember it…_

…_rising and swelling, the burns spreading across his body…_

_The fur of his soul turning to ashes…_

…and rather than rejoicing at the silence and _lack_ of pain around him, the lycan could only groan for several seconds, having to bite back the nausea now threatening to throw itself out upon the world.

_How could anyone_…_burn…another creature?_

He had been told such things happened in the past, but he had never _seen_…never _been_ near a creature whose body turned to ash…and swallowing dimly, he decided with a sick feeling, but a firm one nonetheless…

_Not on my worst enemy_.

Weakly nipping his lip for the taste of life-giving blood, he could feel his stomach settling…and breathing slowly, trying to find his strength, but still unable to stand (and still somewhat traumatized,) Lucian rolled onto his back…now perfectly _ready_ to sleep another _millennium_ if it meant no more _burning_ and _strenuous_ exertions.

But for a while, he simply lay there…unable to move. _Unwilling _to move. Instead, still focusing on breathing. Shivering as he felt dew clinging to the small hairs upon his arms…the feel of cool winds coating his skin. The smell of rain and honeysuckle in the air. As he pushed his mind further towards forgetting the horrible vision, faintly through the mist, he began spotting several clouds drifting lazily by. They looked so comfortable…so at peace…

And _he_?

He was _tired_…he was _traumatized_…

_And_ _granted the smell on those wenches was heavenly…_

…but no more. Lucian, the Master of Muck was _finished_! Gritting his teeth, he managed to crawl awkwardly onto his feet, and still shaking slightly, prepared to make the short trek back towards the silver river…_his_ silver river…

Only to trip clumsily, landing with his face in the dirt and his bones ready to pack up and leave if he wasn't more careful with them. Sighing over his own ungainliness (perhaps in future, he might acquire a measure of poise in his movements,) Lucian flung out an arm for leverage, pressing his palm firmly upon the earthy bank of undergrowth that _must_ have tripped his fall…

_My goodness, that's soft…_

He patted the undergrowth…reasoning it might make a good pillow for his bed of reeds…

_Very soft…_

_Almost feels like a woman's…_

He squinted, still facing the dirt…

_And without meaning to, but quite unable to believe that such a catastrophe could strike **right** after he had escaped his nightmare, the blind hand of Lucian began to pat, poke and prod the poor undergrowth until he was quite sure that it wasn't undergrowth at all, but instead…_

"_Viktor's BLOOD!"_

The hand _shot_ away from the soft "undergrowth" as a youthful Lucian backed onto his rear, almost jumping in his haste to get away, his cheeks crimson as awareness dawned on him, his eyes widening…and now the horrified face of a lycan looking left…_and then right_…and then left again.

_NO, no, no, _he thought with a groan, staring wretchedly at the two supple bodies lying fast asleep on either side of the heather he had just vacated. This was _his_ heather! _His _river! _His _willow tree! He didn't want to be _burned!_ He growled…_what right did these_…

…_these…_

He eyed them bitterly for a moment, searching his mind for suitable words to describe the intruders…

_These…_

…_these supple…_

…_nymphs…of long locks and…_

…_fine limbs lounging in his…_

He paused…

…_bed?_

And abruptly, a sly grin began to work its way through his features as he considered the possibilities. Granted lycan slaves were kept celibate until suitable matches had been chosen for the breeding grounds, but no doubt it had been _years _since he'd last returned to the keep. Perhaps they'd forgotten him by now…or perhaps…perhaps this was a sign from the Elder himself! A vision of the great things to come…_two alpha female lycans draped on either side of his bed…_

…_and though the scent of flagrant alpha seemed to have dissipated completely after these nymphs had entered his world, by Amelia's own face, they were beautiful…perhaps the ivory-haired more than the shrieking harpy, but yes, indeed!_

Fancying himself rather lucky (even if this _was_ a dream), the grinning lycan was just about to pat himself on the back for having snatched the finest wenches known to lycan-kind for his first mating when a sudden (and yet rather _late_) thought occurred to his silver-addled mind.

_Wait a minute…_

…_shrieking harpy._

_Burns…and pain?_

He frowned. The likelihood of the dark-haired one staying asleep long enough for him to wake and woo the other wench was…_very low._ Now, in truth, he could simply _steal_ the ivory-haired woman…rouse her softly in a cave by a warm and luxurious fire…perhaps offer her a skinned hare as a token of his lust and appreciation…

…but then, _intellect_…_common_ _sense_…and that faint tingle of the other hand where his skin had burned off, had a _very_ different opinion of what would best serve the situation…and (fortunately enough,) having a natural predilection for saving his own hide, Lucian _quite_ agreed.

_Quit while you're ahead_, he decided firmly.

And without further ado (having _made_ his decision and now doggedly sticking to it without objection), the seventeen-year old bloodsoul began to make his way _softly_ from the heather patch, willing to forgo _wooing_ the ivory-haired beauty if it meant skipping the _agony _that came with the second one.

_But always on cue…_

…_and never quite willing to stay passed out when it would best serve her…_

Miss Victoria Reed of the violent blue eyes woke up.

Sighing and stretching with a slight yawn (delicately masked by a raised hand,) she snuggled closer into her hospice bed made of heather. A bit chilly all around, she figured, but perhaps if she pulled the surrounding leaves a bit closer, she might get some more…

_Some more…_

…_heather_.

_HEATHER?_

Reed's eyes shot open, her hands frantically poking the ground on which she lay. It was…_purple_. Good gracious, she was lying on _leaves_…and…and _grass_! And looking up in a daze (as if she were in a dream or perhaps a nightmare,) she found her gaze _caught_ by the stormiest pair of grey eyes she'd ever seen. Four feet away and she could _still_ see flecks of hazel speckled about the dilated pupils…

…_and such long lashes…_

_Although, I expect you're a monster, _she pondered rationally, getting awkwardly to her feet_…_

_But nonetheless… (_she dusted off her paper hospital gown.) _…as far as monsters go… _(_dust_, _dust_)

…_long lashes and stormy grey eyes… _(_HACHOO!_)

…_are a perfectly lovely combination, _she decided with a gracious and amicable smile…

And without realizing she spoke aloud, the dark-haired historian cocked her head to the side and directly addressed the river-vagrant…

"You know, a few more _years_ and you might _even_ be classified as _girl_-_fodder_," she declared…

…before opening her mouth to let forth the loudest _scream_ since the fall of Troy.

Diving across the heather, Lucian clamped his palm across her mouth, wrestling the dark-haired woman to the ground, for his _own_ safety if nothing else. She kicked and scratched, but to no avail, as indeed, he was much stronger, faster, and more versed in the art of trapping wild creatures. And now having successfully ensnared the dark harpy's torso and arms beneath his knees, Lucian breathed a _heavy_ sigh of relief (much to Reed's chagrin, as his now-relaxed body weighed a great deal _more_ on her lighter frame) and made to address her, his eyes darting behind him to make sure the other one still slept…

"I'm afraid you'll have to forgive my rudeness, milady…" murmured the stormy-grey lycan, turning back to Reed again and keeping his right hand fixed upon her screams as he proceeded to rip through a small portion of his grime-ridden tunic with the other. "…but I…" He paused, slicing the piece in two with his teeth. "…would rather you _didn't_ have the option of burning my pelt off."

_What had possessed him to call her that? She was no lady! And the words she had spoken…gibberish…_

(_And yet, as if on the furthest shore of thought, he still had a vague understanding of what she was saying, though in truth, he spoke **not** her language...)_

Irregardless, having called her 'milady' at least once in his own language, his nose unconsciously scrunched as he stared at the grimy cloth clutched between his fingers. Deeming the piece _far_ too dirty for such maidenly (_or harpy-ish!_) lips, he pursed his _own_ lips and looked about for something a bit more _clean_ and cloth-like_…_

_Clean…_

…_and cloth-like._

Furtively, he _eyed_ her strange attire.

…_looking down…_

…_and up._

The dark-haired harpy's eyes suddenly widened in protest…

…and then glaring ferociously, her eyebrows just _dared_ this youthful river-vagrant to tear into her hospital gown. (_You wicked boy! Don't even THINK about taking my gown! Have you no shame?)_ But soon realizing she couldn't very well do much of…_anything_…at the moment, the entire expression suddenly (and quite dramatically) collapsed into a terrified plea of…

"_Go awwwaaaayyyy…" _(The eyebrows seemed to say.)

Having watched this entire exhibit with a sudden wash of _unwelcome_ guilt and now presented with such a _direct_ question concerning his morals (good or otherwise), a slightly uncomfortable Lucian finally gritted his teeth awkwardly, before muttering under his breath, "Hardly strong enough by the looks of it _anyway…alright?"_

The dark eyebrows of Reed abruptly nodded in prim agreement before resuming their former position of "maiden in violent distress."

Still keeping his palm over her mouth, Lucian continued to search for something suitable…

_Reeds, underbrush…heather…ivory-haired lycan…grass…trees…_

But eventually, having found nothing _quite_ adequate for his purposes (and no, he _wasn't_ about to risk waking the other nymph up _just_ for a piece of her tunic so she _too_ could demonstrate some pain-inspiring power that he knew not of), he was forced to meet the dark-haired harpy's eyes once more.

Reed cringed.

"_Look_…" he murmured quietly, the deep voice low and comforting in its own right, and certainly at odds with the fear she now felt. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way…but…between _this_," the grimy river-vagrant waved the dirty strip of tunic in front of her. "…and _that_," He pointed at the bottom edge of her gown "…_this…_" he waved the dirty cloth again, "…has had much…much…_much_ more time rolling in areas you'd rather not know about. As that _is_ the case, I won't take much, and I promise you, your _blessed_ chastity should remain at ease."

Ignoring her protesting eyebrows (by the Elder himself, she was _uptight_) Lucian proceeded to slice a suitable strip from the bottom of the disapproving harpy's gown. Having made it larger than his own tunic strip (which he dropped to the side for the time being, having only one hand at his disposal,) he took the _clean _strip and hastily swathed it upon the woman's mouth…and then (still keeping his hand upon the clean strip,) he found the _filthy_ strip and used it to wrap a second layer over the first.

Hence…

…she was gagged tightly about the mouth, but still…_clean_.

He nodded to himself, _Well done, you son of a wolf…well done._

"Now," he said softly, keeping his eye-contact and trying to calm her with warm words…using the same tone he knew soothed many a spooked horse back at the keep. "You appear to be somewhat uncomfortable, so…I'm going to let you on your feet. Do you understand?"

She shook her head, the eyes suddenly wide and fearful again.

"No, you don't understand…or no, you don't want to get up?" he murmured in question.

Again, the dark-haired harpy shook her head.

"Alright, _er_…" Feeling a tad foolish (_Wolf's bane, why couldn't he just drag her like any other self-respecting lycan?)_, he pointed first to _her_, then to himself, and then _up_ with his thumb…

…and still keeping his voice quiet and low, he whispered… "…don't be alarmed, but I'm about to _move_…"

On the last word, her eyes abruptly squinted, and then ears twitching as if listening to a far-off voice, she finally nodded, getting the picture…

_Why do those eyes look familiar…_he wondered vaguely for a moment, but then, pushing the thought aside, he turned to the matter at hand…

"Alright…slowly…_slowly_…and _up_ we go…"

Easing himself into a crouch, while keeping his grip around both her arms, Lucian began to rise, pulling the dark harpy up with him until she could stand on her two feet. She stumbled a little and still wary of kicks, fists, and scratches, he immediately followed his _second_ instinct, blushing faintly as he moved behind and took a firm hold of both her wrists.

Apologizing once more, he used the second dirty strip of tunic and tied her hands behind her.

"_There_…" he murmured deeply, tying the second knot… "…not too tight, I hope."

And then…

_Meat on a pike, what in Viktor's name are you saying? What does it matter if it's tight? She tried to burn you alive, you mindless pup! It's not as if she paused and said "Not too hot, I hope…" before throwing more wood on the fire!_

Nonetheless, he repressed his inner sarcasm for the moment, and instead said as warmly as possible…

"_Well_ then…I trust in future we may, _er_…_remedy_…this lack of conversation. But for the time being, fair maiden, I believe it would be best if I saw to _silencing_ your sleeping companion as well…"

He turned, hoping on his mother's pelt that he had the strength to keep hold of _two_ pairs of flailing arms, kicking legs, and scratching nails. If he was going to trap the second one, he'd need all his wits about him and, no doubt, another tunic…but unfortunately, gaping at the spot where the ivory-haired female had _once_ lain, he realized he'd just been robbed of that problem.

_And at that very moment…_

…_and for the first time in four years…_

…it began to grow dark.

Immediately feeling a change in the air, Lucian took a step back, his hand tightening about the girl's wrist. The mist had begun to weave itself about their persons, and though he _ought_ to have taken the hint earlier, looking up _now_, he realized the clouds he had seen drifting were merely a precursor to the gargantuan thunder storm threatening to break free. The wind had started to pick up, twining over and about his hair as the wild aroma of rain now forced itself through his senses as if to say…_I warned you…_

_Drip…_

_drip…drip…_

_Drip…drip…drip…_

Turning to the dark-haired harpy (who was already shivering in her highly non-existent gown,) he smiled a little ruefully, regretting not only the loss of the ivory-haired wench, but also the odd feeling that life had not gone the way it ought…and that, in setting out on his chores that morning, in a world where everything went to plan and memories stayed where they were, he ought to have returned to the keep and indeed_…left_ for the breeding grounds of Viktor. Assumed his post as a dutiful servant on his way to great things…

_Trained as a warrior…_

_Attended as a guardian…_

…_and perhaps some day_…

Even gained a post in Viktor's own fortress.

But then, raising his voice as the first swell of thunder hit the air…

"_I'm afraid it's going to get a little cold_…" he yelled, taking her by the arm as a torrent of water _surged_ from the heavens, drowning their voices and plastering the very silver to their faces, as lightning struck in what had become a nighttime sky. Knowing this was no ordinary storm the way he knew night could not fall so quickly, he flung the dark-haired harpy across a shoulder and ran for the woods.

Although it wasn't _quite_ what he expected…

_…at the very least…_

…he _did_ have a cave waiting.


	17. Chapter 13: The Twisted Neck of a Raven

_**NOTE**: The conversation (and some of the writing around the conversation) have been changed AGAIN as of August 8th._

_(Not too horrifically, but enough that it would be worth a quick scan if you've already read it once. Look out for the name, Madár. It'll be used later on in reference to the female character of this chapter. I doubt anything more will change on this chapter, but please do read and review and mention if something's not making sense. By the way, I got rid of the name "Estwan"...Nigel is "Nigel." We're sticking to him...)_

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**Chapter 13: The Twisted Neck of Raven**

_**Elsewhere...**_

Deep in the heart of District VIII, an abandoned subway line had been transformed into the gritty darkness of an underground street-club. The place was sweltering. Concrete walls jammed with the moist bodies of over two hundred mortals pumping and grinding themselves to remix time. Lasers installed above their heads darting across the mob, illuminating the toxic pulse of these creatures living for the beat of a dangerous turn-table. Most were born of wealthy families, but had grown tired of the regular club scene. Paying in cash, they now sought excitement in the shadow of their bodyguards. Bouncers and security standing at the edge of every exit. Special armoured cars sweeping in and around Budapest, dropping these prosperous children into infamous poverty so they could dance the night away, pretending to be the street vagrants they found so fashionable.

One figure stood out, coldly striding through the crowd and music as if she owned the place. Her face, though exquisite, was unnervingly pale, the icy blue eyes slightly hazed around the edges. Unlike the sharply dressed children that milled about her, she wore a slim hooded trench-coat, shabby by the standards of most and missing the all-important designer label. A small sweatshirt underneath, black and zipped up to the chin, hiding her neck. Pants made of black leather. Hair completely concealed by a hood, save for the few dark strands falling past her forehead. Even with the slight change in her choice of clothing, she still managed to exude the word..._sleek._

Reaching the other end of the hall, the icy woman walked by the bouncer, shadows playing across her face as she entered the rusty doorway behind him. He nodded at her, keeping his cool and resisting the impulse to call for back-up. They'd been through this once before…and if the woman wanted in, she got it. Once out of her sight, he put a sweaty palm to his ear and spoke through the transmission, warning the boss of who was coming.

_Warn him then, _the intruder thought coldly, hearing the bouncer's words as he spoke them through the metal door.

She strode on into the dark VIP lounge filled with plush leather seats and card-playing gamblers. The children of millionaires resting their feet upon imitation tattered-rugs...drinking malt-liquor and toasting their daring campaigns into the unknown. (Several scantily clad servants could be called upon should anyone thirst after something more…diamond cocktail-based.) Even as the guests raised their ever-so-slightly dirty glasses, the security stiffened uncomfortably as the strange woman passed. There was a strong scent of mold coming from her body and the fronting socialites had begun wrinkling their noses. Ignoring the slight, the woman continued on her path, keeping her silence. Although she had enough speed to rip a tendon from each of their necks without being seen, she had no bone to pick with _them_ this night.

Walking down a dank hallway and stepping into the _official_ men's toilet (hardly used, as there was a pristine one two doors down for those who could not brave imitation-_shit_), she sniffed the air slightly. _Disgusting_, she thought. And then, striding to the last stall, she kicked it open.

_A little puddle of unidentified water leaking all over the heavily soiled cement floor. Graffiti and slurs written on the walls. Pieces of toilet paper hanging from the filthy seat and strewn across the porcelain._

_And of course…_

…_a man._

_Stylish and clothed in a black wool suit.  
Blessed with the face of an angel.  
Fiery red hair, sensuous lips…_

…_and a pair of demonic_ _blue-eyes._

Nigel had wedged himself into the corner beside the toilet, holding both arms out as if to stave off the blow he _knew_ was coming. Except it would be worse than a blow this time. "It wasn't my fault!" he hissed, practically squealing as he tried to back further against the wall. Not even daring to put up a fight.

"The last I heard that wasn't my problem," she murmured, casually taking the time to load a single ultraviolet bullet into the gun strapped to her leg. Her voice was deep and ominous, sounding a death toll with every cold word spoken from her lips…

"_Wait!_ Please…just wait!" He begged, scrabbling beside the porcelain.

"And why would I do _that_, Mr. Courting?" Her eyes were starting to grow even _redder_ as she spoke, driving home the subtle hint of how little she needed the gun now pointed at his forehead.

"I can get you…_blood_! You need blood, _I can get you blood," _he began to whimper, almost babbling in his haste to save the commodity running through his own veins. Not even caring as she used his real name…

"I don't _need_ blood."

"But what you ask…it's _impossible now_," he whispered, starting to nervously scratch the walls with the carefully manicured fingernails. "I can't…"

"Then we'll have to find someone else," she shrugged nonchalantly.

"_No, wait!" _He yelled desperately, holding both hands up as he heard the sound of the gun being cocked. Closing both eyes as if he could escape this nightmare. "_I can_…_I can_ _find_ _a way to put it_ _back_, but _please_…just _two_ _days_…"

"_One_. This is the _second_ time we've had to have a little chat, Nigel," she said coldly. _Conducting business as usual_. "…and regardless of your status, I doubt even my mistress has enough warmth to deal with your perpetual transgressions. Do you understand my meaning?"

"Yes," he whispered miserably, swallowing the bile caught in his throat and damning the night this strange, raven-haired assassin called at his door. _Why did he do it? Where could he run? She wasn't going to kill him, but…nowhere to run and daylight in four hours… _Bloody hell, he couldn't even meet her eyes...

...but w_atching his throat tighten, the raven breathed his fear, callously taking in the nervous sweat as it trickled down his body. From such simple words, she had seen more in his logic than he yet realised..._

"Why the _two_ _days_?"she asked, keeping her voice low and yet forcing her prey to look up with horror. Her question seemed almost careless,but meeting the terrifying eyes, he understood the not-so-subtle suggestion that life would become very _dismal_ for he who answered incorrectly…

"_What_?" he replied nervously, his heart starting to sink…even as hejerked his chin up again, aided in part by the gun placed in such close proximity…

"_Two days, _Nigel…you only took the pendant last night. Surely if you're so _keen_ on 'putting it back', you'd move with all haste…and yet, _really_…_two_ _days_?" the woman smirked suddenly…_cruelly_. "Tell me, if Visegrád is only half an hour away, how did you plan on spending the other _forty-seven_ hours of your trip?" The gun moved _another_ inch forward. "_Business_ _or_ _pleasure_? Or is it _prayer?_" she inquired in a deceptive murmur, dropping her cold smile even as she began to gauge the true extent of his crimes. The gun had by no means moved from its place directed at his forehead. "Tell me, _Nigel_...which of the three _sides_ do you stand for?"

"_Prayer_," he answered softly...almost rashly. The empty voice of a man who had lost himself...

"How _safe_ she might have been without the _pendant _to let mistress in..." the woman recited coldly. "..._and_ _yet_, _now that Cinder preys on Reed_, _pray_ _tell_ _me_, _Nigel_, where is the _pendant_ to let her _leave?_"

"I…I burned it," he whispered brokenly.

The woman _hissed,_ showing true anger for the first time...the growl slashing through his hopes as her fangs lengthened. Slamming himself against the wall, Nigel covered his face and prayed she might kill him quickly. He had seen her victims…and where once, she had reached the height of rage through the piercing blue of vampires…_now_, something else…_someone_ else lay behind the cool facade. But he was in luck… Tightly reigning in her anger before it unleashed a great deal of…_death_, the dangerous woman blinked the glowing red glaze from her eyes and calmly said…_as if nothing had happened_…

"The _ashes _then?"

"Scattered across the parking lot. The wind took them."

"Oh _really_…" she murmured softly, taking a discouraging step forward.

"_I'm_ _not_ _lying,_" he whispered earnestly, keeping his eye on the barrel of the gun while crouching further away from his oppressor. _The suit no longer looked as sharp as it once had, but what was money when your life was on the line?_ "…_but I_ _just_…need more time. What can one more day hurt, Madár? If it's already burned, we will need…"

_The music stopped in the distance suddenly…the off-beat of someone's remix catching his words in the open. His voice suddenly felt over-loud. The sound of him stalling in his own throat, and the words of barter dying off into silence… _

Abruptly, the woman lowered her gun, efficiently returning it to its sleek holster. Frowning coldly, she turned her back and stalked away, further belittling his strength and knowing even a bullet could not stop her in her tracks. "I'm afraid there is no '_we'_, Nigel. _You_ have one night. _You _can find a new pendant…and _you _can put it back where it belongs. I trust you've done enough homework to realize who can aid you with this matter…" Reaching the door, the icy ex-deathdealer now called back to him in a pointed whisper that carried…_"_Darkness knows why _I'm_ helping you, but two and a half pints should do it. If you're lucky, Cinder won't smell the residue..._"_

"Two and a half _pints_?_"_ he repeated miserably from the stall, still plastered against porcelain and knowing the raven-haired _creature _could hear perfectly from where she stood… "I don't have two and a half pints of _blood_ to be dropping on every single Tom, Dick, and Mary that cuts wood!"

"I never said these things were _easy_ to come by," the woman replied coldly as she leaned against the door. "It might cost you a tidy fortune, but they do work on short notice…"

"_They_?"

"You _know,_" she murmured mysteriously, crossing her arms and staring at the mirror. Feeling the pulsating beat of music echoing through the door. "…_Kovács_. You didn't think they only did silver, now did you?"

His heart stopped beating for a moment, but he forced the next words to leave his mouth. "I…I thought their house was_…"_

"The remnants live in Miskolc…but you should be be familiar with that by now. You've already _made_ their acquaintance at least once." By the sound of her voice, she was starting to find something _very_ amusing, though in the fashion of a killer who found it pleasurable to watch kittens drown.

_Miskolc__? Their acquaintance?_

He started to frown, sliding further into his crouch. Rubbing his eyes as he tried to work out the words of this _unhelpful_, though merciful, woman of ice. "But I've never met a _Kovács_…" he whispered from the stall. "...I mean, except for those sun-deprived…" The words suddenly caught in his throat, and darting out into the open, he faced her, holding onto the door, his eyes wide and…utterly _disgusted_. "They said there name was..._was_…" he swallowed, sliding to the floor, the expensive suit completely ruined on the grime. "…_Varga."_

She continued to stare at him, unconcerned by his horror…though in truth, he had a right to his revulsion_. The Kovács had been struck from history for over a millennium, and though the twisted and sadistic world of Yllarius Kovács, the cheerful Smith, had been vanquished many lifetimes ago, his descendants still paid the price for his ghastly and atrocious sport. In mortal terms, it amounted to having Vlad the Impaler as a distant relative. All vampires bearing the name were shunned…and most descendants tried desperately to cover any ancestral tracks connecting them to the infamous and accursed house..._

"I guess that'll be all _then_," she murmured with a cold gleam to her eye. "Word of advice though. After they're done, try not to faint on the way to Visegrád. Blood-loss and driving don't mix." The last words were spoken very softly, and Nigel had to strain to even hear them.

Without another word, the raven-haired woman jerked the door open and left.

_The sound of hip-hop still making its way through the walls. Concrete walls jammed with the moist bodies of over two hundred mortals pumping and grinding themselves to remix time. Lasers installed above their heads darting across the mob, illuminating the toxic pulse of these creatures living for the beat of a dangerous turn-table._ He had started the club two years ago…and this was the true investment. Not the auction house…

It was _his_ club. Not hers…

…_but hopeless_, the blue-eyed demon continued to sit, staring blankly into space from the grime-ridden floor. For several minutes, he rocked himself, still hearing the deadly beat of music so far away…_trying to figure the way out._ _There had to be a way…there was always a way._ Raising his hands to his face, he began to press upon his temples…and then darting swiftly into a rise with the speed of vampires, he slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering it into pieces. The blood dripping from his wound as he silently began to snivel, his escape cut from all sides. There was no way out. He'd turned on her once…and now a second time.

_Forgive me, Ambrose, _he implored silently, running the hand under water and swathing the wound as tightly as possible in his jacket. Stupid to have done that…precious drops of blood falling into the sink. _I tried to save her. God forgive me, I tried, _he began to mutter to himself, over and over and over again. But the words didn't sound so heroic anymore as he watched the red liquid being swallowed by the rusty drain.

_Foolish and betraying friend…_

…_you'll need that blood._

And then forcing his lips into the strained smile of a doomed man, Mr. Nigel Courting left the room, intent on burning his way through the streets of Budapest. If he was going to reach Miskolc before sunrise, he'd have to drive like a madman.

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_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, Specks and Andrea (they were very heartening,) and I hope everyone likes this new chapter...as you've noticed, there are lots and lots of pendants running around this story. We're practically rolling in pendants...everyone has one. The latest thing since the death of Lucian. Very chic..._

_(Don't worry, I'll sort it out...the meaning of the pendants will become clear. But as of this moment, just so we're all on the same page, there's_

_(a) the "first key to the tomb" pendant usually around Aeduin's neck..._

_(b) the "the second key to the tomb" pendant usually around Urith's neck..._

_(c) the pendant of Lucian (that used to belong to Sonja, but is currently missing)..._

_(d) the pendant introduced in this chapter, that was actually burned in Chapter Two without anyone noticing, including Reed, the writer, and the readers. And no, Reed doesn't usually wear it or even care for it, hence it's easy to steal. Sneaky Nigel. We'll learn more about this type of pendant later..._

...and _that's_ _all_ for pendants for the time being.

Next chapter, _I_ _believe_ we'll be continuing on with Reed and Lucian...


End file.
